I'm a clumsy dork, and I often hope people aren't paying attention to my oops moments. Not a week goes by that I don't smack an elbow, a toe, or a hip bone into something as I walk. By the time the bruise appears, I've forgotten its origin.

Like today: I was at a new gym location. (Way snazzier than the one I went to last year. I like!) Anyway, that's my excuse—I was new to the territory. I get on this elliptical machine and work out for a while. Afterward, in a state of high endorphins and slight light-headedness, I step off and turn . . . right smack into a concrete support column. It was a moment of beauty and grace. Um, yeah, apparently I forgot that I'd chosen a machine location that was tucked into the corner of the room. (Note to self: next time, exit stage left.) My knee is still wincing.

But it's not just my physical injuries. Yesterday morning I somehow lost control of the Special K cereal box as I was trying to pour. Flakes and dried strawberry bits flew into my daughter's face and piled up in the silverware drawer. I cannot explain the trajectory these pieces flew. (Kaelyn now gives me a wide berth when she sees I'm in the kitchen.)

When I was a teen, I recall reading a book called Megan the Klutz. (And yes, I just found it on Amazon.) It was cheesy, but it made me feel slightly better to think there could be other awkward adolescents out there. Maybe I should go find a copy and re-read . . .

All in all, I'm fortunate to get through the day. Somehow I survive. My dignity can't say the same.