I Am The Bull Of Simile

Have I ever said I was physically awkward? I am. I can cite any number of stories which, taken on their own, do no more than make me look human. Together, they paint a picture of someone with a habit of wreaking accidental havoc on a scale entirely disproportionate to his modest (at best) stature. Were I still a teenager, I would be clinging to the hope that as a more mature man I would move with grace. Years later, I know fully well that I will improve only when the time comes that I stop walking around at all. Perhaps my bodily ineptitude is endearing, though; I'll permit you to make that judgement, reader.

Often the trouble has to do with my backpack. I take it with me almost wherever I go, and pack it full of all the things I might need and then some. That's just because I never really know whether I'll make it back home before morning. Not having a car, what else am I to do? The thing is huge and unwieldy, and its weight means that the damage it does is all the more devastating when I unwittingly hit someone while backing up or spinning around like the whirling dervish that I am. Happily, this is something that will improve on its own when the day comes that all the things my backpack contains can be stored in my car's trunk.

Unfortunately, the kind of prosperity that can buy a car will not cure all ills. I have a way of committing egregious "party fouls" while sitting down to eat at a fine, reputable sit-down restaurant.  An inordinate number have taken place at certain diners I commonly patronize with my improv comedy friends. I prefer not to repeat the exact nature of any specific incidents, as it would undermine prayers I fervently made that those incidents would fade away in the minds of all present. To whatever degree people forget specific accidents which had to do with the upright state of condiment bottles or the cleanliness of clothing and exposed limbs, they will not forget that I lack a talent for careful, measured movement in tight spaces.

Probably the worst examples of my awkwardness have resulted in real bodily harm to friends, and consequently in emotional trauma to me personally. People around me have their own missteps to answer for, however. Surely when someone leaves the house in sandals, they are partly culpable when their toes get stepped on in a crowded bar busy with activity. Regardless of whether they hold themselves accountable, I will not shirk my own responsibility: I am the stepper, and not only once. I have exhibited forms of accidentally injurious behavior as well, but see no gain in going into it any further.

What is there to be done? I have previously found some solace in the notion that living alone away from any people would remove any risk of my shortcomings jeopardizing my own chances of happiness as well as those of others. Regretfully, I must admit that this is one flaw of mine that will not be healed by moving to a pond in Massachusetts and living in a shack I made myself with the knowledge I accrued studying the arts in college. No, I think I'm going to have to be practical and realistic: my awkwardness will only improve when technology allows for the effective implementation of cybernetic augmentation of humans.