So, I decided it wasn’t really fair to have others write about their mishaps without fessing up to my own.
I have to say though: it’s funny how when you throw out a topic like mishaps, people interpret it all sorts of different ways. Because this is what the word mishap brings to mind for me.
I was eight.
There was a talent show at school. I decided I would dance. There are a few things you should know about my dancing before I continue:
1. I am an awesome dancer. Teach me the moves and I can execute flawlessly.
2. I love to dance. I find it peaceful and cathartic.
3. Left to my own devices without choreography, the way I dance could put strippers out of business. It’s not pretty. Or it is, depending on what your preferences are I suppose.
To quote Happy Gilmore, “It’s all in the hips.” And my hips don’t lie.
Luckily at eight, my hips had yet to take over my dance moves. That didn’t happen until I was twelve or thirteen. And it nearly killed my dad.
So, I get up and start to shake my groove thing. However, I have not choreographed this thing because my young self knows I’m an awesome dancer but does not yet realize that I am not a great improviser. So, take note: with no choreography, I do not execute flawlessly.
But for awhile there it was going awesome. I was rocking it. Which led to me getting cocky. I over extend myself….and land square on my patootie.
I can not let people know that I didn’t fall down on purpose.
So I do what any eight year old would do. I quickly do a reverse split, stand up and shimmy off the stage.
Because I was so smoooooth.
And because my life is one giant, slapstick sitcom inspired mishap after another.