Clumsy and Frazzled

I am clumsy. I was born that way. It is a curse, really, and if you were ever clumsy yourself, you know how embarrassing, uncomfortable and hopeless things can get. If you are not, then you are probably one of those people who roll their eyes when witnessing. I very much dislike you for rolling, even though I do understand. My sister is a roller. Once at breakfast when I dropped the toast for the third time she told me in a stern voice: "That's enough now." Like I was a misbehaving toddler who enjoys throwing things on the floor. I am not. I just can't help it.

This is not a new topic for me either. Some time ago, when I lived in Colorado, I had already written a post about my clumsiness. I will attach it to the end of this blog post, for a good measure. The real problem is that pregnancy and motherhood made everything hundred times worse. I am not just clumsy now, I am frazzled too. It's incredibly frustrating. When you have a baby that starts eating solids, you expect there is going to be a big mess. You just expect it is going to be the baby who creates it, not the mother. 
I suppose some things can be blamed on the lack of sleep and everything encompassing tiredness. You know, when you walk past the T-shirt laying on the floor, pick it up mindlessly and realize it is actually your cat Dublin. Or when you get out of the shower, grab the towel and then start wondering if you washed your hair or not and plainly can't remember even if your life depended on it. And then you take out your contact lenses, put them in the case, put your glasses on, wash your hands, take your glasses off and proceed to swipe at your eyeballs repeatedly wondering why the hell you are not able to get hold off that stupid contact lens.

Our recent conversations with Peter go like this: Me: "Did you turn the baby monitor off?" Peter, looking puzzled: "You just did." Me: "No, I didn't." Peter: "Yes, you did. 15 seconds ago." Me: "You are messing with me, aren't you?" Peter: "No, I am not."

There is a saying in Slovakia "who doesn't have in head has in feet". It means that if you can't remember something, you have to make extra trips to go back and get it. It's a definition of me these days. When Peter asks me to drop the
Netflix DVD off, I grab the keys to the mailbox, grab the kid, put my shoes on and off I go. I walk up the street to the mailbox and you guessed it, Netflix DVD is still at home. When I go for a walk with Kai, I collect my wallet, sunglasses, a toy for Kai, maybe an extra layer for both of us, then put Kai in the stroller and 5 minutes down the hill realize out of all the things listed above all I have with me is the kid (which is still a good outcome, all in all).

It is not a good combination, clumsy and frazzled. Not at all.

Here is the post I mentioned earlier (written about 4 years ago).

I am being clumsy lately. It's one of those mysteries to me – I used to be a queen of clumsiness, then for a reason I will never understand it just passed, like a summer storm, and now it's back, like a virus you thought was gone, but in fact it was only dormant, waiting for you to get to your weakest time, when your immune system is on zero and you are completely unprepared, and strikes back.

Within last two weeks I lost my wallet, ski pass and a tooth filling. The last one I actually swallowed with a piece of my tooth as well, sort of like a desert after a nice family dinner. So I had to drive to the dentist, without a driver's license or insurance card (they were in the wallet I lost) and pay 500 bucks without a credit card (which was in the mentioned wallet as well). 

I went to Starbuck's afterwards, to grab a cup of coffee. Energizer, you know…I was pouring half and half in my cup when the lid of the can fell off and the whole content spilled all over the floor, which was the moment I realized that whatever I managed to pour in my coffee was not half and half, but skim milk. Let me tell you, I am very particular about milk in my coffee. 

I guess it's still not as bad as it used to be. When I was in college, I used to go to this pub. I pretty much lived there, every night from 11pm to 4am, with my college friends that I will probably never stop missing. One of them decided he wants to see me smoking a cigarette. I don't smoke, never did. Never will. Don't care if you do, just not my thing at all. 

Well, he was very persistent and I figured it was just easier to give in and make him shut up. I lit the cigarette, took a few drags, while telling him some very exciting story. As usual, when I have couple of drinks and tell an exciting story, I was gesticulating wildly. It's one of my things. I gesticulate too much when I talk (once I smashed brand new Swatch watch my sister gave me to my graduation, while explaining to her what a jerk this one Slovak politician was). Usually, I just spill my drink. Seven out of ten times, I smack the glass with the back of my hand while talking and the content shoots in every direction. That time, I didn't spill a drop. I burned my eyelashes instead. With a cigarette in between my pointer and a middle finger (the way I saw it in the movies), I somehow ran the burning end through my right eyelashes. 

I don't know if you have ever burned your hair (happened to me when I was about 12, while bending over the table with a candle on it). It stinks. Your burned eyelashes stink just as badly. Then again, if you didn't and were wondering, they do grow back.

I wonder how long this sick phase is going to last this time around. 

1 comment:

  1. Andrea, I found your blog from Tracy (Oulman's) and laughed out loud at this post. You are a terrific writer! Hope life and motherhood are treating you well.

    Steph Hock