Pack me in bubble wrap and call it a day...

My boyfriend likes to make fun of me because he says I'm the clumsiest athletic person he's ever met. He tells it like this:

Our friends told him they wanted to introduce him to someone who was in the local triathlon group with them, so he assumed that I at least had some measure of athleticism. We met, we hit it off, and on our first date we decided to go bowling. And I killed him. I mean it. I had the best bowling games of my life. Here's proof.

So he assumes that he's clearly made the correct judgment, although his ego is a little bruised. And then we hang out a little more and he begins to see that I can barely walk down the street, let alone up or down stairs without tripping. For awhile, I disagreed with him, and told him that I couldn't really be that clumsy, but then I started to add up all the injuries from the summer and I had to admit--he might be right.

Recent issues include:

When I hit myself in the head with the cork screw while trying to open a bottle of wine at the beginning of summer (I was sober). I probably should have gotten stitches.


There's the MANY times I've ripped open my knee from sliding during softball this summer (although I don't really think that's being clumsy...).

Then, about three weeks ago, I stupidly tried to take a turn too late on my bike, thinking I could make it. I didn't. Instead I got this:


And, most recently, while running on Sunday night, I tripped on a piece of sidewalk that was crooked and poorly lit and got this:

So, now when I go to a wedding this Friday in a nice dress, with my hair done, I'll have a scar healing on my forehead, a bright pink, barely-rid-of-the-scab scar on my forearm, and scabs on both knees. If I was a kid, I'm pretty sure my parents would be at the police station for questioning right now.