Clumsiness, Or, How the World Keeps Getting in My Way

I've been told I'm clumsy. I've thought I was clumsy. I would even go so far as to call myself positionally and spatially challenged.

But after over twenty six years in the same body, I've come to the conclusion that it's not my fault. It's the environment. Really.

I live in a world full of malicious, anthropomorphic inanimate objects who plot and scheme and move when I'm not looking so they can put their marks on me--lovely bruises of various sizes and shapes. I find myself with bruises I have no memories of getting, which leaves me to conclude my bed is involved somehow.  It really is impossible for so many things to move into my way when I'm not paying attention unless they're deliberately setting out to do so.

I've tripped on a wire that was attached from an outlet to a camera that cost about twelve of my cars (haha now you don't know the cost of this camera or my car) that caused this camera to crash onto a linoleum floor. I've managed to trip on perfectly flat surfaces and walk into chairs that I just set down.

But you know who's behind this all? The doors are. Yes, the doors. You know, those things that guard the portals in and out of buildings. And cars. And microwaves.

It always comes down to the bloody doors.