There are two types of “grace”.
There is the “grace” that is an action, i.e. bestowing grace (favor, relief, peace, honor, etc.) to someone for something, i.e. “Amazing Grace” or a grace period for credit cards. Then there is “grace” that is a description of someone…and that “grace” can mean a character trait or an action adjective such as “She is so graceful.”, meaning how she dances or moves or walks.
I may have the first type of “grace” when it comes to my soul, but when it comes to the second type of “grace”, I am sorely lacking. Sorely being the key word there.
I believe I have touched on some examples in my past blogs of just how graceful I am not. Today is, sadly, just another example of that.
I have to admit, I have set myself up for failure in my office as I have basically boxed myself in an office of many corners, in a room of many doors, and a floor full of many files. Let me give you the lay out.
My office is approximately 3 feet by 50 feet. No…it’s really not, although it feels that way sometimes. It is more like 7 feet by 16 feet. My desk and adjoining wobbly computer desk made with balsa wood match sticks and aluminum foil takes up about 5 of the 7 feet in width of my office and the files that line the wall take up about a foot. This, as I am sure you can count, leaves me with one foot of walking room. I need more than one foot of walking room. The bruises on my body would show that a wide berth is needed. Even a hallway that is 4 feet wide isn’t enough for me to walk safely because no matter how much space I am given to traverse, I will trip, slip, bump, or knock something. Now I am not a very large woman, probably about 2 feet wide at my shoulders, so technically I don’t need that much room to walk, but alas…I do.
The files that line my floor are needed on a daily basis, so there they sit, against the wall, my own personal obstacle course. A moving obstacle course of slippery file folders and sheets of paper. It’s like Wipe Out – The Office Edition. As you can see, I am doomed. But this is not the tale for today’s telling, as today’s misadventure did not happen within the three foot torture radius of my office…today’s tale is much more my fault and less the obstacles around me.
I would like to say that my current wound was from doing something cool. Like I was doing a backside tail grab out of a half pipe and my hub caught the rim and I wiped out causing me to thrash my left forearm. But that would be a lie, awesome, but a lie nonetheless.
In actuality my co-worker and I were outside on a break and somehow the song “I’m too sexy” by Right Said Fred came to mind and we were laughing and singing random lyrics. The joviality moved from there to models and walking the catwalk. Once back inside I thought I would be funny and “cat walk” into her office like the super models do during fashion shows. Now, I am not a super model. I am not even a mediocre model. I am not a model at all. I have only watched them stomp down the runway on television, never having actually done it myself. But, come on, it’s walking with a purpose, can it really be that hard? That, my dearest readers, is the question of the day. I should have already known the answer to that, at least as it related to me. But, once again…I did not.
So there I trod, stomping through the hallway, making it through one door frame, past the fax machine and through her doorway only to SLAM my left forearm into the door handle of her door. I slammed it so hard my first two fingers went numb instantly. But, you would be happy to know that if I ever were to become a super model I would be able to finish my walk with style and flare because I did not stop after maiming myself, oh no, I did not! I completed my runway walk, hip thrust, hair sling and pivot and stomped my happy butt right back out of her office. It wasn’t until I was back into the hallway did I holler out in pain and look down at my arm, which had already started to swell. She, my co-worker, was not laughing at my faux runway walk, um no, she was laughing at me and the apparent look on my face after smashing my arm on her door handle. Because although I finished my walk, including the hip, flip and pivot, my face told an entirely different story. One of immense pain and distress. And to her, that was the funniest of all.
The moral of this story, clearly I cannot mock something and remain uninjured.
Instant karma.
Mock not, my friends, or if you do, cover yourself with bubble wrap.
M.L.