Just call me Grace

It’s a good thing my mother never signed me up for ballet lessons or some such childhood activity that required flair, balance or a slight dose of dignity. (Although she did allow me to brave the rink at Lawson Ice Arena for lessons that didn’t do a whole lotta good.)

I regularly bump into doorknobs, trip on the stairs, hit my elbow on various hard objects, whack my little toe on couch and chair legs, thunk my head when standing up after retrieving items from beneath tables and counters.

So my morning joust with the ATM really isn’t all that notable. Still, I’ll share.

I had a check to deposit. Simple enough. I do this weekly at the drive-up ATM on my way to work. My first issue is with the machine itself. In order to achieve contact with the buttons, one must pull their car very, very, VERY close. Fine. But my mirror (and countless others by the looks things) has been dinged many times by that hunk of metal. So on this trip, I was a bit more conservative.

As a result, I had to struggle to reach the slot with my card, hanging half out of my window. All was fine until I had to insert the envelope. I had it near the slot, almost there, when it fell to the ground. SHEET! (Trying to curb my language being a new mom and all.) I attempt opening the door to grab it. No good. Door only opens about three inches.

Crap. Whatever. Drive car forward and exit. Pick up envelope and huffily shove it into the beeping contraption. Receive receipt and card. Walk back to car.


Yep. I gracefully lost my footing on the ice and landed heavily on half of the car seat. I was mere centimeters, though, from my a.s.s. landing on the ground. So I really had a lot to be thankful for. I looked around with a little laugh, pulled myself all the way into the car and then my new bruise and I headed to work.