| Klutztomania |
May 15, 2008 7:39 am
Mood: One-Eyed WHF, 724 Views |  | Some days I should remain on the stage or dance floor and not get off it.
One of my dance partners, J, used to wonder how such a graceful dancer on stage can be such a total klutz off it. The number of times he had to carry me to the nearest clinic, bandage my wounds and massage my bruises ... well, the ever-patient and long-suffering J would just roll his eyes at me and nag me to be more careful.
If there is a manhole left uncovered, you can bet your life I would be the idiot falling into it. If there was a loose piece of scaffolding threatening to collapse, it would be right at the moment when I am walking under it.
Calamity Jane should have been my nickname.
Most people who do not know me find that hard to believe. For some reason they assume I am rather ladylike and graceful. Until they know me and realise I am a walking accident-waiting-to-happen and quite bloke-like in attitude as well.
Today, I should have just stayed in bed.
I woke and decided I was going to be all ladylike and feminine today. Since I only had business meetings and no classes to teach, I could eschew my usual work-out gear and dress like a real girl. Out came the little sun-dress and my hair was let down.
So, there I was in a cream and red halter sun-dress, gold loop ear-rings, neutral makeup that takes hours to look like you do not have any makeup on (how contrary are we girls, eh?), bright red lips and golden slippers. Tres feminine. Tres delicate looking, even to my jaundiced eye.
So off I went to a lunch meeting. My lovely associates brought me to an Indonesian restaurant as a nod to my lineage. Cool, I was just craving for rendang. Then I remembered the rendang at this restaurant is atrocious. Darn it.
Ever the gentlemen, the blokes drew my chair out for me to sit in. I perched myself primly on the plastic chairs and realised I was too far from the table. So I tried to adjust my chair closer.
GRRAAAAAPPPTTTTHHHHBBBBPPPGGGRRRR!
The obnoxious, grating scream from the rubber-clad legs of the chair against the marbled floor was so loud, everyone turned to look at me.
Egads, I wanted to disappear into thin air.
My tablemates were too polite to laugh but I could see they were killing themselves with silent laughter.
Then the food came. Grilled chicken in a special dark, sweet sauce with curry rice. I felt my drool accumulate in my suddenly ravenous mouth.
Conversation faltered as we dug in.
Bugger, this chicken is kinda tough. Delicious but tough. The cutlery is a little wonky and thin too. I applied more force to pry the succulent meat from the bone.
And a piece of chicken whizzed past me in a whir of dark and furious motion to hit the wall behind me. We all turned to see a hapless piece of grilled chicken slide tragically down the whitewashed walls, leaving dark brown skid marks that looked distinctly unappetising.
I looked at the blokes. They looked at me. We all looked back down at our food and pretended it wasn't there and we had nothing to do with it. But I could feel the burn of the skid mark's accusatory trail of shame on my back and shoulders.
I blessed my genetic makeup that makes it impossible for me to blush.
I spotted one of the guys' shoulders shaking suspiciously and shot him a narrow-eyed look which he studiously avoided.
Then I reached for some spicy deep fried fish and as I was ladling some onto my plate, my dangling gold bracelet got caught in the sauce and I ended up with a bright smear of red on my forearm. I looked like I just tried to commit suicide.
The obliging bloke sitting next to me managed to control his giggles as he quickly broke open a roll of wet towel to wipe my arm. I felt like a kid getting cleaned up by his dada.
After that the meal proceeded without any more humiliation.
Until we got to coffee.
This time it was not my fault.
Kind of.
They served the coffee in traditional, thick china cups and saucers that preserve the temperature of the beverage. Brilliant, I thought coffee might wake me up from this clumsy stupour I seem to be under.
So I stirred the condensed milk collated at the bottom of the cup with the red plastic spoon. Gently. Very gently.
And the cup shattered, spewing coffee everything. Even managing to cause one flying spurt of coffee to land in my eye.
So I was tearing in one eye and everyone is in panic stations. The long-suffering bloke next to me took out another roll of wet towel and started wiping my eye while blowing into it. My eye, that is, not the towel.
If someone had taken a picture of us at that moment, I think it would have looked terribly incriminating.
Many minutes later, all is calm again and I have one red eye. Amazing, my dress remained unsullied and my makeup is still intact. Wow, MAC products and UDPP are amazing stuff.
The restaurant is completely beside themselves and apologised profusely, writing off our bill and promising to host us for another meal on the house.
Mr Hero next to me insisted I go to the doctor despite me telling him I was fine once I removed the contact lens and the smarting eye will recover quickly since it was just a tiny drop. But the man had a hero-syndrome if ever I saw one and it was a cantankerous, one-eyed WHF and nagging hero who went to the clinic where the doctor told me the same thing.
By the time I returned back to the apartment, I was convinced I am cursed in this godforsaken country. I booked a flight out for Saturday.
Lord, please protect your extremely clumsy and accident prone soldier of misfortune from further harm till I can get out of here. Amen.
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