Day 128

"Miss Stephanie, are you wobbly?"

That was the question posed to me today as I attempted to maneuver a difficult game of hop-scotch. An honest answer to that question would have been, "Yes. I have been for the past 23 years."

I have previously alluded to my lack of athleticism, but it truly goes deeper than that. I suffer from an all around lack of coordination and balance. 

One example of this is how I didn't really learn how to ride my bike until I was 14. The rest of my childhood looked something like this, only without the smile or the carpet underneath me:

The bike I'd just fallen off of had training wheels
and was sitting stationary in my front room.

I also never learned how to do a flip on the trampoline, double-dutch jump rope, or numerous other childhood activities that require reflexes in order to avoid pain. My mother recognized this unfortunate trait in her firstborn, thus I was never allowed to ride anything with wheels unless I had on my helmet, knee pads, elbow pads, and possibly wrist guards. I remained oblivious to the danger I posed myself.

Then my tom-boy phase struck. From third through fifth grades, I was determined to recreate myself as a woman to be admired for her ability to play all sports to perfection. Every recess without snow, I could be found with the boys out on the baseball diamond. I was never any good, but it was not for lack of perseverance. I thought the lesson I was about to learn was that, "practice makes perfect". I ended up learning two very different lessons: "Always keep your eye on the ball" and "Never mix love and sports."

The year was 1996. I was in Mrs. Packer's 3rd grade class. It was a beautiful day, and the boys had let me be pitcher. I'm certain they were regretting their decision, because I had just thrown yet another bad pitch. From behind me I heard my crush call out some words of encouragement. I turned towards the outfield to give him a smile. That's when I heard the catcher, a boy by the name of Nathan, cry out, "Steph! Turn around!" The smile was still fading from my mouth as I turned around to see a softball directly in front of my face. Then everything went black. I opened my eyes to find myself staring through the blades of grass as I watched Mrs. Packer sprint across the field towards me. The next thing that registered was the pain. I tried to fight back the tears as Mrs. Packer helped me to my feet. Then I saw the blood. It was everywhere and still pouring from my face. That was when I stopped trying to be brave and cried like the little girl I was. After spending awhile in the nurse's office, the blood finally slowed and it was decided that my nose was not broken. They called my mom to bring me a change of clothes. I spent the remainder of the school day with tissues and ice clutched to my nose. The sidewalk was stained with blood, from where I ran past on my way inside, clear into the next school year. My love of pitching was stained for a whole lot longer than that.

Alas, I was but a poser.

My balance is not something to be tested. I have been known to trip over my own feet. Anytime that I pretend any differently, I have payed for it.

Then I took up hiking. As a teen, this seemed like the perfect solution. I could be outside and active, but not really worry about making a fool of myself. Just stay on the path, and life is dandy. One of my family's favorite hiking spots was in Yellowstone. My favorite hike in Yellowstone is to a place called Fairy Falls. The summer after I graduated from high school, we were on that hike and I was feeling confident in my abilities. At the bottom of the falls,there is a small pool of water. I'd always wanted to go to the other side of the pool, but I didn't want to get my feet wet when we were just about to put in several more miles hiking. As I was wandering around the pool, I spotted some logs set up just perfectly across the creek leading out of the pool. I kicked the logs and they didn't budge. So, began to test my weight on them and they still held firm. Slowly, I maneuvered my way across the creek. About halfway across, I had to switch logs. I picked up my left foot to step over, and suddenly everything was bad. I was lying in the creek, watching the sunglasses I had gotten on my service trip to Mexico get caught in a swift current. I panicked and tried to scramble after them, but I was caught in all sorts of debris. By the time that my dad helped me out, my glasses were long gone. After picking various small rocks and sticks out of my leg, and resting for awhile, we continued on to a less traveled part of the trail. It wove its way through some marsh, so there were (what else) logs laid down to avoid being ankle deep in mud. After my previous foray into the world of walking on logs, I was decidedly more hesitant in this crossing. As he waited for me to finish my trek, my dad took this picture:

Notice that half of me is still wet.
And I'm flailing about like a spaz.

I used to think that the path to take was to simply accept my fate, acknowledge my limits, and never push them. However, I have now come to realize that route would mean a life without growth.

I have come to embrace the fact that there are always an array bumps, bruises, and scrapes to be found on my body. It just means that I'm pushing my limits, and actually living. Even if it is a graceless life.