Speaking of Grace

It's no secret that I am a klutz. I am notorious amongst family and friends for being incapable of walking in a straight line. Sober. Just walking. I cannot do it. I waver. I run into people. I hit my head on lamp posts bolted to the sides of buildings.

On more than one occasion, my sizable junk in the trunk has broken glass. A window. A table. Sunglasses. I think the song "Baby Got Back" might have been written for me, but Sir Mix-a-lot seems to have forgotten the verse where the Oakland booty shatters glass. I have kicked wine glasses into loved ones' faces while sitting on a couch, and I have had to come to terms with the fact that I am just a bundle of elbows and knees and hips and awkwardness. There's no getting around it.

Now, I have been told--on more than one occasion--that I can compel myself to be graceful. That I should take ballet, learn to plier, be conscious of my limbs, my extremities, and that glass-shattering behind. How does that go, though? The one about not teaching new dogs old tricks? Old dogs new tricks? Something like that...I am twenty three years old. Doomed forever to a life of clumsiness and windows broken out behind me. I think if I even tried to stand en pointe I would end up kicking whoever was next to me in the face. Nobody likes an awkward ballerina.