The Tale of Patricia, Her Royal Klutziness

Sponsored by Keith A. Veres, CPA, CGMA
Mt: 13-13 Jesus said, “Those who are well do not need a physician, but the sick do. Go and learn the meaning of the words, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ I did not come to call the righteous but sinners.” If anyone wishes to be  first, he shall be the last and the servant of all.”

Sure, I am aware that the name Patricia is derived from Old English and means “noble.” I might argue that the root source could and should, in fact, be traced to Emerald Isle origins. I’m Irish, sue me.
 
Lest we forget that the initial ruling class in ancient Rome (my other half!) was called “the patricians.”
 
How is it that a gal named so regally and with theoretical if not frayed, decaying ties to aristocracy can be such a colossal klutz?
 
I mean, someone who falls, walks into stationary objects, and generally just bumbles her way through the day should not have so royal a moniker, by all rights. Truthfully, the closest I come to having any blue in my blood are the colorful bruises I sport weekly -- and with nary a thought of how they occurred, sadly.
 
Just call me Clumsy. And Forgetful. And Awkward. Heck, I should go live with Snow White and company. I’d fit right in! At least there’d be medical attention at the ready.
 
Clunky sigh.
 
It started early; probably from the time I was old enough to trip, er, I mean, stand on my own two feet. Did I mention they are both left?
 
I’m pretty sure my first steps were a stumble. To wit, one of my earliest memories is having my Mom wrap me up tighter than Ebenezer Scrooge’s wall safe so I could run off to Siberia, a/k/a out in the backyard, to play with my siblings in the winter’s first huge snowfall.
 
I must have been about three.
 
Mom walked me out the door and .075 seconds later I was upside down inside a snow drift. And the bungling began.
 
Fast forward to First Grade, when I somehow lodged my right index finger between two desks to the point of the tissue bursting bloodily through the skin. YEOWW!
 
I was scarred for life…oh and it left a permanent mark on my finger, too.
 
A human with this track record should know better than to take up running. But I did in 1998 --- and I’ve probably had at least one fairly significant spill per year since.
 
There was the uneven sidewalk in Port Clinton that jumped up and tripped me, jarring my Blackberry loose. Sure, I had road rash for months but at least I saved my smart phone! #DumbChoice
 
Then there was the tree root from hades on that trail run which twisted my knee into a Celtic knot. For one brief millisecond, I was spread eagle, parallel to the ground. The ensuing thud jolted terrified bears out of hibernation and left me with bruises to several bones…and one ego.
 
So, it should come as no surprise that, while adjusting the Peloton bike seat at the hotel gym --where apparently Yao Ming was previously working out-- I had a majestic mishap.
 
As the seat slammed down onto my left thumb, I looked up at myself in the mirrored walls thinking, “This could be bad -- it doesn’t hurt yet.”
 
Then the bleeding started… and funhouse reflection Patty got a little dizzy. OUCH TIMES TEN THOUSAND. #BrokeMyThumb
 
At the risk of taking an evolutionary step backward, as my friend Lizzie chided, I ignored my family and friends’ collective suggestion to get an x-ray on my opposable thumb. I figure the worst that can happen is a perpetual thumbs up?
 
Besides, I wouldn’t want to deal with all the paparazzi, being a royal, and all. #PainMakesYouDelirious
 
Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist and plain old commoner. Check out her cute li’l blog every day, anyway, at www.patriciakimerer.com

---