Lately, I’ve been tripping over my own two feet and just about everything else in my path. I’ve even closed our old fashioned one slab garage door on my own head. Guess I wasn’t moving fast enough, which would mean a pace slightly swifter than a snail.
The other day I hopped off the treadmill and pulled on the waist tie of my workout capris in a (supposedly) time saving maneuver en route to the ladies locker room. Instead, I created a knot so huge I could barely wiggle my pants over my hips in time to ride the porcelain pony.
Out at Fort Funston with the hound I bent over and promptly caught my keychain in my shoelaces, thereby inventing an unintentional new dance, the Stoop & Squat.
I’d like to be an elegant, Grace Kelly-ish sylph, but that’s not going to happen. Not in this incarnation, anyway. I’ll have to settle for being a shoo-in for a How Many Self Inflicted Body Bruises Do You Have? competition. To each her own.