I’m a Klutz and I’m Proud of it.

It’s roughly 10:30am and I’ve been up and alert for three-point five hours. I’ve ran my pre-dawn run and it’s time to head into town to collect fresh food for the day. The red house on the corner is always sparkling clean, the flowers blooming daily and heavenly, the sweet smell of homemade pasta sauce drifting in the mountain air, tiny cars edge their way through town and I find myself walking… into a large terra-cotta broken flower-pot. Shit. That hurt. Look cool. Doo, Dee, Daa, Effin ‘ell. Hmm. Past the post office and into the matchbox supermarket, I head for the six-foot by three-foot dairy fridge. OUCH. Shitty Mcshitterson!! I’m bleeding…look cool, stay calm. Ok it’s not that bad but dang nab it. Oh, its cool here…you’re cool. Fresh mozzarella, yogurt, and sweet chocolatey desserts all beckon me.Bleeding…pain. Ok forgetabouit. I grab for the pear and fibre Yogurt which is.50e cheaper here then at Sigma and head to the checkout. The little grey-haired woman looks up at me; it’s the same look I get from all the local women. It’s a look of who are you, why are you here.  She slides my items past the electronic bar scanner and tells me my total in Italian, of course. I give her my money and a grazie, and separate the cork beads in the door way and out into the sun I go.  Bleeding and limping but happy.  I’m a klutz and I’m proud of it!

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