Somewhere out there, there must be women who glide through life in silk blouses without a single coffee stain, who never trip on their own shoelaces, and who somehow manage to eat spaghetti without looking like a toddler with finger paint.
I am not one of them. I am, proudly, a clumsy woman.
Food constantly finds its way down my cleavage. Honestly, my boobs are like a man’s beard: a net for falling snacks. I trip over invisible objects, drop things daily, and my clothes seem to rebel against me with regular wardrobe malfunctions. And don’t get me started on my hair. The minute I have both hands full, it drops over my face like a theatre curtain mid-performance.
Case in point: this week I was juggling armfuls of stuff, hair blinding me, when some man decided to launch into a conversation. Did he offer to help? Sweep the hair out of my eyes? Carry something? Of course not. He just stood there yammering, waiting for an answer while I struggled on. Honestly, if I’d had a free hand to scoop out any food from the boob-trap, I would’ve lobbed it straight at him.
Graceful? Please. Being a clumsy woman isn’t a flaw; it’s a lifestyle. And survival is my art form.
So here’s to the myth of the graceful woman. May we never meet her. May we keep tripping, spilling, wobbling, flashing a bit too much, and still showing up anyway. Because perfect is boring, but clumsy is unforgettable.
