I’m a wee bit accident prone. Though there isn’t a support group for the condition, this distinction should at least merit a designated side-of-the-building parking space cordoned off for everyone’s safety. I often joke I can dance, but I can’t walk, because I actually do possess grace when I’m dancing. Not so much when I’m walking. I call people like me “proners” because it’s much nicer than the term clumsy oaf. One of the many ways I end up getting owies is my proner propensity to trip and, ladies and gentlemen, I’m not talking about that kind of tripping. In point of fact, I’ve developed a patented type of running trip for which I manage to stick the landing about 90% of the time. The other 10% of the time I dismount somewhere I wasn’t planning to go, narrowly avoiding full implementation of my insurance coverage in the form of ambulance service. I’m telling you I could hurt myself on a boiled noodle. My clumsiness has always been a part of my life. But as I’ve gotten more — mature, shall we say — these emotionally and physically painful experiences have really amped up. Whereas before entering my fifth decade I averaged about one proner incident a week, I’m now averaging one a day. A typical day finds me careening off of walls, capturing my hair in my car window, and rendering my outfits as clothing chronicles representing everything I’ve ingested. This accelerated schedule of proner incidents worries me […]