Butterfingers
If you ask my sisters to tell you childhood stories about me, they’ll take much joy in retelling the tales of my clumsiness.
“There was never a day that went by when she didn’t spell something on the dinner table,” one will start.
“Oh yeah, she used to spill her milo every day during breakfast!” The other will finish.
I like to think that as I grew older, I grew out of this, but today is one of those days that would prove this not to be the case. And if it were just the one incident of spilling hot takeaway miso all over msyelf and the car, not having a towel and having to drive back home with MisoPants, I might let it pass as as a little bit of bad luck on an off day.
But when, only hours later, I proceed to spill a glass of water over our chest of drawers and bedroom carpet, I have to wonder why life hates me today.