Let us consider, for a moment, the sloth. The motivation to do so will be revealed later, but for now: the sloth. A graceful creature that lives primarily in trees, with a top ground speed of 6.5 feet per minute (per wikipedia). Now imagine, for the purpose of this exercise, that some poor sloth had to have a limb amputated. Doesn't really matter which one, but luck handed this guy the short end of the stick, and now he's minus a limb. At 6.5 feet per minute, he can't exactly hop, or whatever an upside-down hop while hanging from a branch would be, because he can't move fast enough to grab the branch again before gravity presents its bill. This guy is in for some serious non-gracefulness while trying to move about in a world that is now hostile to general perambulation.
This, sadly, is how I feel on a semi-regular basis. Not necessarily that I'm a three-legged sloth, but just that the world isn't terribly keen on making movement easy for me. I have a bad habit of walking into inoffensive walls and bouncing off door frames. Not because I don't see them, not because my spatial awareness is goofy, but just because I do it. It's been happening since I can remember, and it's to the point where I frequently find bruises on myself that I can't recall getting, simply from ricocheting off solid objects. Well, really, I mean it's not like I'd want to remember every time I've done it, right?!
The irony is that, in most other regards, I'm fairly well co-ordinated, and have been complimented on my grace when recovering from slips and falls. Thanks to the Irish dance that I do, my ankles have gotten stronger, and wet or uneven floors will merely provide passersby with a brief show of acrobatics, rather than the usual sprawl or butt-meets-floor seating arrangement. Surprises and unusual circumstances are easily recoverable, but for some reason, those darn immobile objects just keep getting in my way.
I'd love to say this is because I'm thinking deep and ponderous thoughts, like the fable of the astronomer who fell in a well, but if I have to be honest, this isn't always the case. For every time I've found the edge of a wall while debating the importance of word order in a case-marking language, I've also run into a doorway two or three times with my eyes firmly fixed on the space beyond it, thinking nothing more than what items I may have in the kitchen that would assuage my hunger.
Like the poor amputee sloth, I fear I simply have to accept that there are times where grace deserts me, and move on with life. Preferably, at more than 6.5 feet per minute. Cheers!
This, sadly, is how I feel on a semi-regular basis. Not necessarily that I'm a three-legged sloth, but just that the world isn't terribly keen on making movement easy for me. I have a bad habit of walking into inoffensive walls and bouncing off door frames. Not because I don't see them, not because my spatial awareness is goofy, but just because I do it. It's been happening since I can remember, and it's to the point where I frequently find bruises on myself that I can't recall getting, simply from ricocheting off solid objects. Well, really, I mean it's not like I'd want to remember every time I've done it, right?!
The irony is that, in most other regards, I'm fairly well co-ordinated, and have been complimented on my grace when recovering from slips and falls. Thanks to the Irish dance that I do, my ankles have gotten stronger, and wet or uneven floors will merely provide passersby with a brief show of acrobatics, rather than the usual sprawl or butt-meets-floor seating arrangement. Surprises and unusual circumstances are easily recoverable, but for some reason, those darn immobile objects just keep getting in my way.
I'd love to say this is because I'm thinking deep and ponderous thoughts, like the fable of the astronomer who fell in a well, but if I have to be honest, this isn't always the case. For every time I've found the edge of a wall while debating the importance of word order in a case-marking language, I've also run into a doorway two or three times with my eyes firmly fixed on the space beyond it, thinking nothing more than what items I may have in the kitchen that would assuage my hunger.
Like the poor amputee sloth, I fear I simply have to accept that there are times where grace deserts me, and move on with life. Preferably, at more than 6.5 feet per minute. Cheers!
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