I’m clumsy. It’s something that I’ve gotten used to over the years. It doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing, there is a fairly good chance that before the day is over I’m going to trip over my own feet, run into something, trip over something or manage to bruise or injure myself in some fashion.

When I reached the age of 10, I went through a clumsy phase and unfortunately, I have never gotten over it. My sisters nicknamed me Grace because of my obvious lack of that quality. I thought it was mean at the time, but I’ve come to embrace and accept my stumbling alter ego.

I managed to keep my clumsiness from my co-workers for a short time. But after several recent incidents, including, and I’m not making any of this up, hitting myself in the face with a hammer when pulling a shelf off the wall, getting the heel of my shoe tangled in the cuff of my pants and falling down the front steps of my babysitter’s house, and numerous other stumbles and face plants, the secret of my lack of coordination is out of the bag.