I was 4'3" (shorter than most 10-year-olds) with size 7.5 feet (that's 9.5 inches of foot). It would be an understatement to say that I had trouble moving. I'm sure I tried not to look like a skinny baby elephant, but at some point I gave up. Other kids played sports durring recess. I spent most of my time on the balance beam because my gigantic feet actually helped me stay on. I quit dance class around this time because I could hardly take 4 steps without falling over, and heaven knows that's not a good basis for dancing.
I think if I'd have hit my growth spurt earlier, I probably would have adjusted to walking and moving normally, but four years of being severely clumsy took their toll. I spent so much time at the nurse's office in middle school that she always kept a bed open for me.
When I started high school, I had pretty much grown into my feet (and almost my nose), but I was still adjusting to being 5 feet tall. I should also mention that all my growth had been solely vertical. I weighed all of 100 pounds and looked like a twig. My movement patterns had not changed since middle school, but now I had longer legs and farther to fall.
And fall I did. I remember it like it was yesterday.
It was the first week of high school. I over-slept and had to pack my gym bag at hyper-speed and run to school. I didn't really think anything of it until 6th period rolled around and I had to dress down for gym. I didn't know anyone in my class, and given my track record in past gym classes, I was completely dreading the new level of torture I was sure high school gym teachers would inflict.
In typical Micaela fashion, I got totally lost on the way to class. By the time I found the locker room, only a handful of girls were still changing. I threw my shirt and shorts on in a flurry, but when I reached into my bag to get my sneakers, I found... hiking boots. I had accidentally packed my gigantic, beige hiking boots instead of my sneakers. I was the only person in the room by then, so I put on my boots and trotted myself out into the gym...to find that most of the class was already outside.
I could see the last group of laggers disappearing out the far door, towards the soccer field. I tried to fast walk and catch up to them, but my huge boots made embarrassing clomping noises on the wood floor. I trailed the group at a safe distance, figuring I could catch up just before we joined the rest of the class. I'd forgotten, however, that the soccer field was at the bottom of an incredibly steep hill.* The rest of the class was already there. One of the gym teachers blew her whistle and shouted at us to hurry up. The group in front of me started to run, menuvering the steep hill at incredible speeds, and looking exceedingly cool while doing it. "I can do that," I thought.
I coached myself to a light jog, boots pounding the ground, and began to descend the hill.
"This isn't too hard," I thought. "I look cool," I thought. "These boots give me traction," I thought. And then...
"I'm flying." The weight of my boots made me forget to lift one of my feet. My body suddenly called on it's years of dance training, coaxing my feet into a perfect 5th position, which turned out to not be conducive to running. I contorted like some kind of human pretzel, head over heels, as I tumbled the remaining 10 feet down the hill. I swear, at one point I had about three feet of air.
Finally, the falling stopped. A teacher rushed over to make sure I was okay. I was, until I realized that I had just fallen down a hill wearing comedically large shoes in front of at least 30 people. Everyone was staring at me. Someone laughed, someone else laughed, then a lot of people laughed. I wanted to melt, like the Wicked Witch of the West, leaving only the cursed boots. I had a good cry about it when I got home.
I like to think I've gotten a little more coordinated since 9th grade, but the truth is I've learned to take myself less seriously. I still fall down all the time. I trip getting onto the shuttle at least twice a week. I'm constantly banging my knees against everything. I got a second-degree burn making a grilled cheese sandwich. Heck, I walked straight into a tree today! This stuff is funny. And if I think it' funny, I can only hope someone else is thinking, "Dang, that girl walked into a tree. That's hilarious." and not, "What on earth is wrong with that spaz-machine?"Because if walking into a tree made someone else smile, even at my expense, it wasn't all bad, was it?
People say learning to love yourself is one of the most important things you should do in life. And, yeah, that's fine and all, but learning to laugh at yourself... I find that more important. Laughing at yourself means you forgive yourself for being a total idiot, and if that isn't love, I don't know what is.
Here's to another week of hurting myself in humorous ways.
x,
m
*To those of you who will argue that the hill wasn't that steep: This is MY blog, MY story, and MY injured pride. So shush.
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