Shattered in my hands

I'm a clumsy girl. On a normal day, you may find me stumbling over my own feet and then promptly scanning every direction to make sure no one saw me. I also may trip over words, drop items or slam unsuspecting body parts into doors. My fingers, hands, arms or feet carry the purplish blue battle wounds often.

This past week was rough and gravity was testing me. A few stumbles here and there, some dropped trinkets, followed by a miss aim of the doorway. I'm pretty sure the tall glass window next to the sliding glass door still has my face print on it.

Now mind you, the majority of these are sober moments. I don't fall this much when I'm intoxicated. Odd, I know.

So, the climax of the week was Sunday, when I was trying to take some dainty wine glasses back to their home on the wine shelf. Again, I was sober when this took place. Really, It's a short walk from the sink to the wine shelf and about two steps in, a glass begins to slip from my hand. I tried to make a quick gesture to prevent a tumble and when I did, the bulbous ends of the glasses met and shattered. They shattered in my hands.

It was a few cuts and stabs, nothing a couple of glow-in-the-dark Casper band-aids couldn't handle. Nothing to really complain about, but I'm excellent at complaining, even about minor boo-boos.