Damn those genes…

I type this with the handicap of one less finger this evening. Why, you may ask? Finger jam. How, you may ask? It’s a long story.

Actually, it really is not, but that sounds better than the truth. The truth is, I am a walking magnet for minor injuries. A bonafide living and breathing klutz.

And what’s worse than living your whole life as a klutz–a life filled with minor and embarassing mishaps and silly injuries? Why, it’s knowing that you’ve passed this gene on to at least one of your children. That’s right, I’ve a klutzy spawn.

Before we explain a little further, let’s examine the definition of klutz, shall we?

A klutz is a person who is clumsy, foolish, inept, or accident-prone. The term is perhaps derived from the Yiddish קלאָץ klots (’wooden beam’), cognate with the German Klotz, meaning a “block” or “lump”. The British slang, pillock and the Australian slang, galah are used with similar meaning, particularly in terms of being foolish and inept.

Great. So, to the Germans, I’m not only a “lump”  but a “block?” And, in the U.K., I’m downright stupid?

You know what is really stupid? The fact that I’ve known I’ve had this problem my whole life. I made it through advance courses in English and Journalism in college, and worked as a TV news producer, a technical writer, a magazine editor and writer, and it took me looking up the definition of KLUTZ to figure out that it was not spelled with a “C.” Dang, maybe those Brits are bloody right…

So, many a day, my neighbors try to hide their amusement at the sight of my son, running to catch a ball, whack a hockey puck, oh and sometimes just walk a straight line. I love my kid and think he’s the cat’s meow. But, I will admit right here and now, that he does a darn good imitation of Seinfeld’s beloved Kramer and he’s mastered the art of the trip and roll. It’s actually quite amazing to watch him in action. One neighbor recently asked me if he was the class clown, obviously thinking he does all of these acrobatics on purpose.

Today, I attempted to help the kid with one of my favorite pastimes, basketball. Love that game. Wish I could have played many more years of it, actually. As I was trying to show him how to give a decent hard pass and catch one, my fingernail caught the ball and I found myself with a nice index finger jam.

I’m pretty good at shaking these things off and have gotten to where I can even hold in the profanities, given that things like this happen almost weekly to me. I grabbed an ice cooler pack and held it to my finger for awhile, and we went back to work. But, my son wasn’t really getting the head fake jumpshot move I was trying to teach him. So, I grabbed the ball to demonstrate.

I did an excellent head fake.

It was so good that the frozen ice pack, which I hadn’t bothered to set down prior, went flying upward and slammed right into my jaw. Yeah, I thought…that’s going leave a mark.

“Maybe your Dad should be the one to help you?” I shrugged and watched as my son looked on trying to hold back his amusement.

Later, just before dinner, I heard a whack and ran to find my boy writhing in pain on the entry way floor. I didn’t even need to ask what had happened. Toe stub to the corner floor molding. Ahh…yes, that’s one of my go-to moves.

As I tried to comfort him, I thought to myself, why on earth could my son not pick up another one of my less-than-flattering traits? Any other one really would be fine. “

Chronic Ice Cruncher while Watching Nightly TV?”  Take that one, boy.

“Daily Loser of Keys and Sunglasses?” It’s all yours, my lad.

I’d even wish for him the “Leaver of Shoes Out Everywhere” one and feel he could still make his successful mark in this world.

But, the clumsy gene? Couldn’t it have died off with yours truly? Haven’t I really worked that one to death already? The poor “lumpy” bloke, he doesn’t stand a chance, does he?