The Art of Bumbling Ballet or The Demolition of Go-Go

Gracefulness. Women are supposed to have it inherently. I am here to tell you that it skips a generation...or maybe two (as two of my nieces are just as helplessly uncoordinated as I am). I am hopelessly clumsy. I have run into walls, fallen up and down stairs, fallen out of and into chairs, as well as a number of other calamities. I have on separate occasions cracked a rib waxing a truck, rode my bike into the only pole in the yard, fell out of an apple tree with a root-beer float in my hand, burnt my finger lighting a candle in a bathtub full of water, and never once I have I met a patch of ice that my ass did not directly meet. I am sure that this often looks like something that could only be performed by a cartoon character, and I can assure more than once I have rang my bell and heard the birds tweet and seen stars. But I have to laugh at it. If I didn't I would probably slip on a puddle of my own tears, step on the cat's tail, and knock out my front teeth trying to get cookie dough out of the fridge.

Perhaps the most famous of my butterfingered casualties is that of Go-Go the Walking Pup. The year was 1990, and all that most any little girl wanted for Christmas that year was this delightful, white-furred, walking, barking ball of joy. My cousin actually got one. She was such a beautiful little robotic lhasa apso with her pink bow and leash. That year Go-Go was truly the crown jewel of our Yuletide loot. It overshadowed not only my Koosh ball and Troll Doll, but also my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle actions figures. Okay, maybe she wasn't better than the turtles, but I as the tomboy of the bunch (at the time) I was the only one that really appreciated how cool Donatello was with his storage shell or how stealthy wind-up Splinter could be. So of all the toys the four of us got that year Go-Go was the shit. We were all delighted. Unfortunately, three days after Christmas, before she even lost her new toy smell Go-Go would have a tragic accident from which she would never recover.
The three of us had gathered upstairs at my aunt's house around our bounty. We coudn't decide what to play with, but it was clear that there simply wasn't enough room in the bedroom to properly walk Go-Go. After all she needed to be able to really stretch her mechanical legs. So my cousin handed her to me. "I will grab this stuff," she said pointing to a pile of Barbies, coloring books, and other yet-unused toys, "You take Go-Go downstairs." I was speechless, and her baby sister was jealous I could see it in her eyes (or maybe I am making that part up). I cradled her in my arms, spellbound by the luck of the draw. I was going to be "walking Go-Go." It was only moments, however, before everything went array. My pant legs we too long*, and I tripped. As my toes became just as quickly untangled I was tossed into the railing, banging my elbow into the banister, and the rest is history. She flew out of my arms; there was no stopping her. As I watched this ill-fated ball of white plasti-fur tumble ass over teakettle down the stairs I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Go-Go was smacking into a number of steps. I had crushed all hopes of her ever walking anywhere, but my child's innocents gave me hope. Upon descending the stairs as my cousins ran onto the landing to see what the commotion was I screamed, "She is fine! She's okay!" They raced down the stairs after me. We picked up the now disheveled toy. It was clear that Go-Go would never walk again. I had single-handedly ruined Christmas. To this day when ever my ability to stand up or walk straight is hindered by natural arrhythmic predisposition this is the story they tell. Something like: "Remember what happened to Go-Go?" Or, "If you piss her off she will just throw you down the stairs like poor Go-Go." Is what I usually hear. Way to forgive and forget ladies.
To add insult to injury, I not only killed Go-Go, but today I nearly took out this same cousin's flat screen TV. In other incidences with this particular family, I have also broken one of her mother's plates from her wedding china, chipped her little sister's front tooth, and dropped her older sister's eye-shadow in the toilet.** Upon thinking about it, I am beginning to wonder why it is exactly this woman lets me anywhere near her stuff or her children. Weird. Anyway, today I was innocently walking across the living room when without warning I was accosted by a plastic lemon that was left on the floor by some negligent child that didn't put it back into the kitchen set as it should have been. Just another example of children's disregard for the importance of fruits and vegetables, if you ask me. As I teetered first left and then right, putting my arms out for balance, trying not to topple directly into the entertainment center I banged into the television. As though the whole thing was happening in slow motion I reached out for the doomed electronic to stop its decent to the floor. I caught the idiot box just as I sank to my knees in a very odd kid of broken puppet position: one arm on the television, the other on the floor, one leg stretched out right, the other pinned underneath me, neck bent at an angle similar to that of a baby in a car seat. The laughing began before we had even righted the TV, and before she asked if I was alright she exclaimed, "Not the TV! Just like Go-Go!"***

*This is a chronic short girl problem.
**Calm down, GG. It was 20 years ago, you obviously lived.
***She might not have actually said this until we were laughing about it later, but I could hear the inflection of such in her voice.