Ever since I was a little girl, I've been clumsy. And messy. Not intentionally, mind you. But I'm prone to bumping into stuff, spilling things, breaking things and the like. In fact, I was such a clutz in high school that my mom wanted to have me tested for multiple sclerosis because, according to her, my level of clumsiness "just wasn't normal." There HAD to be something wrong with me that would explain why I was always running into walls and banging my head on stuff.
Now that I'm officially a grown up, I've reached a level of acceptance about this part of myself that is fairly zen-like. It's just a given that I'm always going to have spots of my lunch on me and I'm going to have bruises on my elbows and knees from ramming into things I didn't realize were in my way. I'm not proud of this handicap of mine, but I'm no ballerina, and that's okay.
Well today, I amazed even myself with my messiness. I'd gone to lunch at Pho Fortune 75, a rather sketchy looking Vietnamese joint that serves excellent, cheap-as-hell Pho. I'd ordered the #61 (Tofu with lemon grass and garlic...YUM!), and as always, couldn't finish even half of it. So I got a to-go container. You know: one of those Styrofoam things that has three divided sections. Anyway, I load 'er up and then go get in my car to head back to work. I'm about to back out of my parking spot, and I realize--HOLY CRAP!--I've somehow managed to spill sauce from the container ALL OVER my right leg--I'm talking a football sized spot--as well as on the steering wheel, the gear shift, my left sock, left sleeve and--here's where my mad skills really present themselves--on the BACK of my left leg. What? How the hell did I do this? In a nanosecond, I'd gone from a fairly clean adult to a food-covered toddler. Jesus! So I pull out the "Wet Ones" (yes, I keep a stash in my car for just such occasions), and go to work on my various spill spots. Meanwhile, my passenger is laughing his ass off. He's seen me be messy--including the great "BBQ sauce on the eyelid" incident of 2004--but this was significantly worse than anything he'd seen me do before. I get myself as cleaned up as I can, and come back into the office with wet spots all over my jeans and shirt sleeve. The epitome of cool.
After a few minutes back at my desk, I realize something stinks. It's me, of course. You see, the sauce I spilled was fish sauce. So I now smell like the back room of a whorehouse in August. Not nice at all. Luckily, my next-cube-neighbor had a pair of surgical scrubs that I was able to put on, and my stinky jeans are now secured in a big plastic bag. Man, do I ever look hot. I feel like I'm wearing pajamas at work. But, hey, at least I don't smell like Tara Reid's crotch...