Today has been one of those days—you know the type. The kind where gravity seems a little stronger, coordination just isn’t on your side, your own limbs forget how to function, and the universe decides it’s time to remind you that being graceful is optional.
It started off innocently enough. I knocked over a glass, one gentle nudge and it was off like it had somewhere better to be—thankfully, it didn’t smash (miracle!) but it did do that slow-motion slide across the counter like it was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Kitchen Drift. That was just the warm-up act. But that set the tone.
Next up: I tripped over the dog. She didn’t even move—She just gave me that look—the one that says, “Why are you like this?” and gave a deep sigh of a creature who’s just trying to live her life while her human cartwheels through it. To add insult to injury, I then stubbed my toe on nothing. Just air. Apparently, my own feet have joined the rebellion.
Lunchtime joined the party! My fork must have been magnetic to the floor because my lunch just didn’t want to stay on it. Every bite was a gamble. And honestly, I lost most of those bets. I’m now on first-name terms with the crumbs under my table.
The laundry? Oh, that was a masterpiece—feeling productive and ready to turn the day around—I went to put on a load of washing BUT to get on top one myself I decided to give the washing machine drawer a quick rinse before it ploughed into a cycle. Instead of rinsing the drawer front I managed to pour the entire contents of Lenor Outdoorables into the sink. Because apparently, the drawer containers are not tanks, they are lids and the entire contents emptied out and down the plug hole in one massive dollop. With a glug it was gone. The drawer clearly has markings to show this, but apparently on Clumsy Days, my eyes go on vacation too. Now instead of my washing smelling like roses my sink will smell aggressively outdoorsy until 2027.
Then came the grand moment: falling over my own feet. Not stairs, not a rogue object—just me vs. the floor, and the floor won. A simple stroll across the room turned into a spontaneous Interpretive dance.
And as if the universe hadn’t done enough—I caught my clothes on the door handle, this is my eternal enemy. WHY is that even such a thing?! I swear, I could be peacefully walking through a doorway when suddenly, BAM! My hoodie or sleeve gets snagged and you get violently yanked backward like your house is trying to keep you in. There’s no graceful way to recover from that. Ever. It’s always a full-body jolt followed by an awkward shuffle back to untangle yourself while pretending your dignity’s still intact.
Just when I thought the day had peaked in clumsiness, I managed to choke on my own spit. Just sitting there. Not eating, not drinking, not talking—just minding my own business and suddenly having a near-death experience courtesy of my own saliva.
At this point, all I could do was laugh. Some days, your only option is to surrender to the chaos, invest in a sippy cup, and maybe get all your door handles gently removed. Or padded. Or banned. I’m just not sure if I need a nap, a helmet, or a personal bubble. Maybe all three.
If you ever want a follow-up post like “Part 2: The Revenge of the Door Handle”, you know where to find me.
Stay upright, avoid door handles and may your socks stay unsnagged and your spit stay unchokeable.
xoxo
Your dress is perfect match for the scene. Wow !!