On Friday night (ah, Shabbat), I was returning from dinner with Alisa and Lyette, and we decided to take the back stairs up to the apartment. I normally have this great routine of turning the door handle a split-second before nudging the door open with my shoulder, but I somehow managed to mess it up (because apparently I cannot walk and talk and door-open simultaneously), thus ramming myself into the still-closed door.
The ladies did an admirable job of not laughing their asses off, but I was still half-embarrassed, half-annoyed with myself. And no, I was not drunk. I was, in fact, not even yet tipsy, despite the two glasses of wine with dinner -- most likely due to the awesome dinner, and all the water I was drinking too -- so I didn't even have that as an excuse.
"I'm such a ridiculous klutz," I explained, as we climbed the stairs. "One day I was sitting on the couch and Jim exclaimed, 'Oh my gosh, sweetheart, how did you get that?' Turns out I had an enormous bruise on my upper arm, probably from running into something, but I had no idea how it got there."
Much commiseration from the girls, who by this point probably thought I was (a) insane or (b) really into self-flagellation.
Today, I managed to whack my right kneecap with my driver's-side back door as hard as is humanly possible for me to accomplish. How I did this, I'm still not sure, but I do know that it hurts like a [profanity redacted] when I walk.
It's destined to put quite a dent in my skirt season, too. Because I'm pretty sure that's going to leave a mark.