As a child, I have to admit I was not considered the most graceful individual.

I happened to be the kind of child who managed to trip over her own feet several times on a daily basis.

I walked into walls, managed to cut corners too short and fell up the staircase at least once a week. 

What made the situation even more appalling and embarrassing was the simple fact that I bruised easily. It was tiring always explaining why my shins were black and why Band-Aids seemed to be what I used as outfit accessories.

It just so happens that on more than one occasion I experienced the awkward pain of a terrible ankle or wrist sprain and have walked around often with colorfully darkened eyes.

But I thought that I was over all of that. Perhaps it only seemed that way because I was either desensitized to the many mishaps or just more capable of taking the harsh blows.

Apparently, however, I must have maintained my klutziness because recently a casual barefoot walk through my boyfriend’s garage turned into a treacherous incident.

I turned my ankle. It was as simple as that but the pain was rather intense. I shrugged it off as I am accustomed to and settled myself into a chair to assist in organizing his tax information.

A mere 10 minutes later, I attempted to rise from the chair and screeched at the intense pain that radiated through my body.

OK, so maybe it was a bad sprain.

I alerted my loving boyfriend to my predicament and received a cursory examination before being informed that I merely, “had a bad brush burn.”

So, I waited, deciding that perhaps I should follow the RICE method (rest, ice, compress and elevate) I heard so much about. I proceeded to elevate my foot and placed ice in a bag to lay upon my injury.

And waited some more.

After four hours I was concerned that my little toes weren’t able to bend properly and that extending my foot a milli-inch caused my stomach to twinge.

Once again I plead my cause letting one lone tear travel down my cheek and succeeded in getting an exasperated huff and a “fine I’ll take you to the emergency room.”

Normally, the ER isn’t my first choice but as I am only a recent resident of this area I have no family doctor or any medical practitioner who would be able to give me their two-sense.

So off we went. One tennis shoe dangling from my foot because it hurt to even try and slip my foot into.

A short wait, thank goodness it was a Sunday, and a few X-rays later I heard those not so shocking words, “Does it hurt right here (poke, poke) because that’s where it is broke.”

The doctor was pointing to the side of my foot, which I later discovered was the fifth metatarsal bone and the type of fracture I had was considered a “dancer’s fracture.”

So, perhaps you could lump me in with those graceful beings.

I mean, I can be graceful when it counts. Like during hunting season. I am as quiet as a mouse and rarely clump around in the woods despite the bulky layers of clothing and uneven territory.

Or not.

Because just to further prove that I am prone to disaster I will tell a humorous, yet sad tale.

The new Spring weather spurred me to attempt to open my window. Now, in all honesty my windows are extremely old and difficult to handle.

They are heavy and painted with nine layers of chipping white paint. They have no screens and basically do not stay up on their own until you don’t want them to.

Anyhow, I got the idea to let in some fresh air and usually prop up my window with a glass jar that holds a deliciously smelling candle.

Everything was going well. I was holding the window at the proper height with one hand and was preparing to slide the jar underneath, when low and behold I accidentally dropped the jar which then proceeded to slide down the roof.

In complete shock I suppose I lightened my hold on the window and it came crashing down, trapping my arm.

Now, the only way to open the window is to shimmy it back and forth and well, with one arm crushed I was stuck with my little fingers flailing desperately.

After a frantic struggle, I finally managed to slip my arm from underneath the window, gauging myself several times in the process.

And worst of all, my beautiful candle holder didn’t make it unscathed. The two story fall into the yard shattered it and the candle inside.

After cleaning up the chunks of glass I decided to leave the window shut.

The heck with fresh air!

Anyway, for those of you out there that find themselves with ridiculous yet humorous tales of pain (and I truly hope there are others) know that it could be worse.

No one is immune. I have even witnessed my dad, a 6-foot-2-inch brute of a man kick more end tables with bare toes and wind up with blood covered limbs while working on some project, and hardly even flinch.

My broken foot bone was my first and after all the incidents I have managed get thrown into, that’s a pretty darn good track record.

The author is the editor of the Clarion News’ lifestyle and academics sections.