Typical

I trip. I spill things. I break things. I do it all on a daily basis. I used to think I was coordinated and perhaps even graceful. When I was a freshman theatre major I started taking dance classes again. I called my mom and asked her why they hadn’t continued my dancing career as a child. Her response? “You weren’t very good.” (I’m sure she is going to comment and say this isn’t the case… and I suppose I could be exaggerating.) I’ve come to grips with my clumsiness. Thankfully those nearest and dearest have too. As I dumped a plateful of rice on the floor two weeks ago, David was quick to surmise, “It’s a good thing you’re cute.”

So I apparently grabbed hold of that bit of encouragement and ran with it.

I took Sunday off from work so that I could visit David’s church for the first time. We had a great morning, went hiking in the mountains that afternoon and then returned to get ready for a nice dinner. I felt a little rushed as I did not want to be the one to make us late for dinner reservations.

While rushing the application of your shampoo is one thing... rushing with a new razor is ridiculously risky. I nicked my ankle and didn’t think much of it until I looked down and saw the blood. I decided to keep getting ready and just folded a piece of toilet paper over the wound. After all, that’s what men do, right? I obviously forgot about my ankle in the process, because post hair and make-up I proceeded to suit up – heels, hose, and dress. We left right on time and I was feeling pretty proud of myself until I gazed down at my ankle. The huge clump of toilet paper was mocking me from behind my tan hose. David offered to turn the car around, but I assured him I could make it work. I maneuvered the toilet paper down so that it was in my shoe. Problem solved.

Not so fast, Sydney Bristow.

What I didn't realize was that the moment I removed the toilet paper the cut started to bleed again. I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. I snagged a piece of Kleenex out of my purse and held it on my ankle for a moment and then checked the damage. The amount of blood running down my foot was incredible for the size of the wound. I laughed sheepishly as David’s eyes widened. His immediate response, “Apply hard pressure for five minutes, now.” I obeyed.

Here's the situation: date in suit and tie, myself clad in a dress and heals, positive and encouraging K-Love calming the situation as we drive down the freeway towards a very nice dinner reservation and I cling to my ankle.

It's four minutes into applying pressure and my hand is starting to ache. “Well,” I boast, “At least I’ve gotten my most embarrassing moment with you out of the way. Heh-heh. Good thing I’m cute, right?”

“Most embarrassing? How about your baby crying noise? Do we really think that was second date material?”

Good news: the bleeding stopped, dinner was amazing, and he seems to like the fact that I’m ridiculous. Yesss.