I was simply reaching over to put two pieces of fried okra in my take-out box. That maneuver should’ve taken about 10 seconds. Instead, my hand accidentally bumped into the straw sticking out of my completely full glass of soda and the soda spilled all over the table, my lap, down my right leg and all over the floor.

For most people, spilling something in a crowded restaurant would be embarrassing. I got over that hurdle a long time ago because when the good Lord was handing out gracefulness, I was tripping over my own two feet to get in line.

My clumsiness is well documented, starting back in high school. I was in the pep squad, and because I had a car, I always volunteered to pick up supplies. When the squad decided to have a barbecue, I headed into town to pick up two glass gallons of barbecue sauce.

I remember coming over some elevated railroad tracks when the car in front of me stopped suddenly at the traffic light.
I had to slam my brakes on to avoid hitting the car, but because I’d put the two one-gallon containers of barbecue sauce on the seat instead of on the floor, they toppled over, crashed into each other and barbecue sauce came sloshing under my seat, instantly swallowing my shoes and the carpet in a tidal wave of thick red sauce.

I blotted up sauce for weeks and repeatedly shampooed the carpet, but the smell never went away. My best friend said every time she got in that Pontiac she craved a barbecue sandwich.

Cars and I share a long history of my clumsiness. As a new driver, I wasn’t good at calculating distances and I backed into our house.
It was an accident, but that incident causes me embarrassment every time one of my nieces or nephews are upset about getting into a fender bender. One of my siblings blurts out “Well at least you didn’t run into the house like Aunt Denise.”

Every shirt I own has a grease spot on the front that no amount of Spray and Wash can remove. My son, Stephen, says he doesn’t understand why I buy white shirts because they’re a walking billboard for my clumsiness.

He’s right. The last time we were at a Mexican restaurant, I looked down and there were three huge splotches of red salsa on the front of my brand-new white shirt. They coordinated quite well with the big smear of green guacamole.

My big toe is still smarting when I banged it against the steps yesterday, and there’s a bruise on the outside of my arm from when I fell into the wall after banging my toe. I’m an expert at hiding broken glasses, bowls and plates in the middle of the garbage bag so my family won’t discover the latest Mom casualty.

I’ve dropped my cell phone on the concrete, in the pool, in the toilet, from the top of my car – don’t even ask how I managed that one – and the only thing that saves my phone from utter destruction is the heavy-duty Otter box cover I told the cell phone salesman was not optional.

There is an upside to being this awkward. I don’t spend a lot of money on clothes because I’ll ruin them. Our dishwasher gets a break because I use paper plates whenever possible. And I only buy barbecue sauce in plastic containers.

Anything else is asking for trouble.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.