I’m one of those nuts who loves exercise. I’ve been doing some form of it or another since I was a teenager. I love exercise but does exercise love me? The jury’s still out.
We all know that a lot of athletes are prone to injury. That’s not my issue. I’m prone to klutziness. There’s a huge difference. I imagine that a lot of injuries can been prevented. If only athletes, I don’t know, stretched out more, waited longer for prior injuries to heal, drank V-8, that injury could have been prevented. If only klutzes paid attention to what they were doing, they wouldn’t be klutzes.
I’m such a dedicated athlete that the other day I ran to my yoga class no less and then ran back after the class. It would have been a perfect “Rocky” moment if only I hadn’t tripped on the way back, flown through the air and landed on the sidewalk. Normal people fall and turn around to see what they tripped over. I don’t even bother. I’m neither looking for the “real” cause or to take embarrassment off myself by looking to blame an outside source. If ever I was running along a path and there was an eight foot hole due to a worker’s negligence that I catapulted head-first into, I’d still have no case. All of my loved ones and biggest supporters would be the first to tell the cops and lawyers: “Oh don’t worry about it. She does this all the time.”
When I fell the other day, after making sure all of my body parts and electronics were in tact, I called my husband. I think he showed great restraint when I reported the grim news. He actually asked me if I was okay before saying: “Not again.”
Some years back (you’ll see how many since it involves my Walkman), I was lucky enough to fall only a few short limping blocks from my chiropractor. As I was in there cleaning myself up, I realized that I had lost the battery cover to my Walkman. The key to keeping your material losses to a minimum when you’re a chronic klutz is landmarks. I’d remembered as I was sailing through the air, catching a glimpse of a statue out of the corner of my eye and, luckily I was pretty sure it was St. Christopher and not St. Peter. So all I had to do was send my husband on an errand to retrieve the battery cover. I told him it was somewhere between St. Christopher and the chiropractor. Try putting that into your GPS even if it had existed.
I suspect that I’m not alone and that there are thousands of athletic klutzes out there. I’d like to say we’re so embarrassed to be athletic klutzes that we’re in the athletic klutz closet. It’s just hard to deny what you are when you spend most of your most impressive athletic moments in the public eye, lying face down on a sidewalk or treadmill, in a pool of your own blood.
What athletic klutzes want you to know is that we are just like other athletes. We have the passion and competitive natures of other athletes and we will, for the rest of our lives continue to be athletes whether or not it leads to our early demise.