I am the warrior

First and foremost, I must come clean and let you in on a little Internet secret. Those of you that know me in person, already realize this, but I have been able to hide this fact from the online crowd.

So, here goes. (Deep breath.) I am completely uncoordinated and I don't mean my clothes don't match. (Come to think of it, they may not either, but that's not what I am referring to here.) I am a klutz. I have no rhythm. I lack natural grace.

Case in point: Since I have the newest car, I am now given garage parking privileges. I was sooo excited, but now realize this is nothing but a curse. First of all I have to maneuver down the drive backwards each day and it's terrifying for me and probably most of my neighbors.

Secondly, I haven't been able to master getting out of the garage without interupting the door closing. You see, there is a little switch just inside the door that you push as you make your way out. If you don't move quickly enough, a sensor feels you are beneath the door and as a safety measure, it rises again. When Cynical had said parking privileges, he had no trouble at all.

I haven't admitted the "problem" to him yet because I am determined not to give up. I am a warrior and I will win. Each day I attempt to push the button and flee with my efforts thwarted and me feeling defeated as I walk inside and use our spare opener to close the door from afar.

It's like being hit in the face with the softball all over again. Let me explain. This is not my mother's version of the story, she has crafted one that is much more humiliating (if that's possible) but she wasn't there and you should know by now to not believe the woman. She tells her twisted version from time to time in moments when she knows she can get the fullest embarrasment for me. I hate it.

For the sake of illustrating my point, I will tell you the truth, the unjaded and eye witness version.

I played softball one summer and I hated it. I hated it almost as much as I hated riding a horse for the first time or going to Girl Scout camp. However, my parents felt it was character building and I had a mean swing, so I was forced to stick with it. At practice one day I somehow managed to miss a fly ball and it hit me squarely in the area between my nose and eye. It was painful, it was awful. I even fell to the ground in agony. I didn't cry, never forget that. However, it was the worst thing that could have happened to a 12-year-old girl. I was determined not to tell my parents and therefore suffered until finally it was clear that my nose was fractured and I needed medical care. I suspect the fact that half my face was purple and I literally had the imprint of the laces on my face tipped them off.

From then on out whenever a ball approached me, I dove for the ground. I was "ball shy", my version of "gun shy". I finished the season vowing to never play again. And I haven't. I even cringe when we pass a softball field. I avoid family reunions when I think the game might be played.

I plan to beat the garage door. I will not succumb to it as I did the softball. I will not be its victim. I plan to be victorious and show the nay-sayers that I can move with the greatest of ease. Just give me a few more weeks to practice and do not fabricate your own versions of this story. It's embarrassing enough. It doesn't need any emblishment. And avoid me at all costs if you I am having to back more than one foot.