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This morning began like most of mine do—with a minor medical emergency. I got out of bed and somehow managed to roll my big toe under my foot. I don’t know how that’s physically possible, but if there’s a way to violate the laws of anatomy, I’ll find it before breakfast. It hurt, of course, but not enough for sympathy or an insurance claim—just enough to remind me that standing upright is an extreme sport.
Still limping with the dignity of a war hero, I shuffled to the Keurig. I successfully filled the water tank—a small domestic triumph—and immediately dropped my mug on the edge of the counter. It didn’t break, just cracked, in a show of solidarity. I considered drinking straight from the carafe.
After breakfast, I performed my regular household ritual: walking directly into the corner of the kitchen island. It’s like a bruise calendar. Every week gets its own shade. Right now, my hip is displaying a sort of purple-blue center fading into a lovely green-yellow aura. Monet would have approved.
Once, in a flash of genius, I decided to outsmart the corner by spinning around it backward. That only resulted in a matching bruise on the other side. I suppose it’s nice to be symmetrical.
And just now, I tripped up the step going into the barn. Not down—up. That’s a special talent. At this point, I’m one pratfall away from qualifying as a one-woman slapstick act.
People say clumsiness often goes hand in hand with ADHD. Apparently, we’re missing something called “proprioceptive awareness,” which means our brains have no idea where our bodies are at any given moment. I can be so very careful with a pen and still produce handwriting that looks like a spider tap-danced across the page during an electrical storm. My notes could easily be mistaken for a doctor’s prescription—possibly for tranquilizers, which, frankly, feels appropriate.
It’s not that we’re distracted; it’s that the world keeps putting stationary objects in our path. Doorframes, furniture, gravity—they’re all out to get us. And while you’re yelling “Watch out!” we can’t hear you. The hamster wheels in our brains are squeaking too loudly. So if you ever wonder how my day’s going, just know this: by noon, I’ll have stubbed, bumped, dropped, and tripped my way through the first act of my own low-budget comedy.
But I’ll keep going—because… who else is going to keep the bruise chart up to date?