Anyone who has met me in person can attest to the fact that I am the clumsiest girl who ever lived. It is not at all uncommon for me to be sporting the fashion statement of several band-aids, various bruises, and ripped jeans. Not the cool kind of ripped that you pay hundreds of dollars for, but the kind of ripped that comes from falling and splitting my pants or tearing the knees out.

A fun rundown of my work-related injuries:
*I was helping a very fussy woman by wrapping tissue around a plant she was buying to give as a gift. As I trimmed the paper, I somehow managed to snip off the skin on my knuckle with the scissors. I stifled a squeal, handed her the plant, and ran away. I heard her make a huffing noise behind me as I held my bloody hand in the air and booked it to the office to make use of the craptacular first aid kit. A coworker who loves da dramz ran in after me to see what the hubbub was and made a big fuss about “Oh, god, I’m gonna faint!” as I tried to wrap the gushing finger, one-handed. Boss told me to “walk it off”.

*The chopper I use looks a bit like a guillotine for flowers. I may or may not sometimes pretend the flowers are the condemned and I am the executioner (what?). Well, not long ago my middle finger must have committed a crime against liberty (it IS the most revolutionary finger, no?) and was punished, thusly. Luckily, he was only shaved, but as I was running toward the office (if I am running, I am bleeding, and everyone who works with me knows it), I left part of him in Mme Guillotine which I discovered the next time I brought her out. Blech.

*My head is often the victim of my poor coordination. I am not sure, at this point, how I am not completely mentally incapacitated. A short list of things I have dropped on MY OWN HEAD; a case of canned peas, a metal rack for holding Christmas wreaths, a box of glass vases, a set of three stackable wooden crates, a metal and canvas awning, and a countless number of boxes of flowers.

Not sure if it’s the fact that I have zero depth perception, consume a ridiculous amount of caffeine, am always in a hurry, or if I am being secretly controlled by my nemesis (yes, I have a nemesis, all good superheroes do) but I just can’t seem to stop trying to destroy myself. The whole “TCG can’t stand on her own feet” has become a running joke among my coworkers. If they can’t find me me in my department, they check next to the med cabinet, and then on the floor. I am not opposed to it, I am a fan of the pratfall, myself. I am just proud of the fact that they don’t know my name at the emergency room. At least, not in THIS town.