I’m a Hooker. How ’bout you?

There is a famous old saying, “All graceful people are alike; every clumsy person is clumsy in her own way”. Or something like that.

Let me tell you a bit about my brand of clumsy.

I fall a lot. I have some spiritual theories about my tendency to fall flat on my face every time I have an arrogant thought, but there is also the physical reality that I have very small feet and a very large head, which does not make for great balance.

Falling is not an uncommon form of clumsy, however; a lot of people fall down. But not a lot of people are “hookers”. Bear with me.

No matter where I am or how slowly or quickly I’m moving, if I’m passing a hook, nail, doorknob, branch, chair arm, or protruding corner, some part of my person will get snagged on that hook, nail, doorknob, branch, chair arm or protruding corner, and I will be yanked back unceremoniously, arms waving wildly, feet madly dancing to regain equilibrium,  and mouth making this sound: “WoooooOOOOOOOAAAAAHHHHH!!!”

I’m not kidding. It happens at least once a day. Often more.

We have a swinging gate at the base of our stairs that we use to keep the pugs on the first floor. The latch never worked, so we use a little bungee cord with a hook to keep it closed. Nearly every time I come down the stairs, I get caught on that hook. And every time, I fume and bluster and mutter and yank my sweater/tee-shirt/fashionable scarf/purse strap/hair off of the hook and say brilliant things like “Stupid hook!” and “Why do we still have this hook?!” and “Holy God in heaven, what is wrong with me?!”

I wish I could say that I only get hooked on the stupid hook on our stairs, but I would be lying. There is also a doorknob on our bedroom door that’s straight out of The Godfather 3, because every time I try to leave, it pulls me back in.

And then there was today.

My husband had arranged this lovely platter of candies for some guests we had coming over:

I’m not going to say anything about the potentially dangerous glass-on-glass action we’ve got going here. Because that shouldn’t matter. Except, of course, if you’re a hooker.

As I picked up this platter to move it from the breakfast bar to the counter, I passed over the stovetop and somehow, somehow, I managed to get my sleeve caught on one of the very flat, very non-protruding, very un-hook-like range grates (note: this is actually not even physically possible according to most scientists, earning it the title of “anomaly”).  And then you know how the rest goes. Yanked back unceremoniously, hands madly grabbing at the little dishes that were zooming off the glass platter like greased weasels, candies flying and bouncing, and mouth going “WooooOOOOAAAAHHHH!”

And then the inevitable, eternal wail, “Holy God in heaven, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?!”

I hope you will all say “nothing”. I hope you will say “I do that, too”. I hope you will say “It’s because you’re moving quickly, because you’re a mom and you have a million things to do and about three minutes to do them, and we totally understand and empathize.”

Because that will make me feel so much better tomorrow when I’m finding waterlogged candies in the dogs’ drinking bowls and when I’m hanging by my belt from my bedroom door and when I’m cutting off my hair to dislodge myself from the bungee cord at the bottom of the stairs.

It’s hard out there for a hooker.

Tagged as: anomaly, bungee cord, candy, clumsy, falling, hooker