I’m fundamentally uncoordinated. It’s kind of remarkable, really. On a typical day, I’ll discover at least four ways to slam, bruise, slice, maim, gash, break or flambé myself on a wide array of inanimate objects. Once in a while I’ll bust out with some feat of grace, often involving contact sports with countless opportunities for hospitalization. But 90% of the time, the world outside my (well-padded) apartment is one long obstacle course of hazards and near-dismemberments. One friend graciously calls it “structural unsoundness,” since my feet and hands are proportionally too small for the rest of my body. Others are too polite to mention it out loud – they just won’t walk within a three-foot radius of me on a crowded sidewalk (unless I’m the one closest to oncoming traffic). Boyfriend, by now a seasoned veteran of my freak injuries, just sighs, shakes his head and mops up the blood.

So you’d think that, on a busy morning, dashing to a “real adult” meeting in freshly-laundered clothes that cost more than the rest of my wardrobe combined, I’d consider skipping the coffee and grease-coated egg sandwich on my way to the train. But not so! Surely I’ll be able to jog to the station, climb three flights of stairs, weave through the crowded platform and leap into a packed car without spilling a single drop. No sweat.

In a miracle rivaling loaves & fishes, I make it to the platform with all clothes, body parts and breakfast items intact. The train is just pulling into the station – perfect timing! Feeling cocky at this burst of good karma, I pop open the plastic drink lid and wolf down a bite of Cheddary scrambled mush. A cluster of papers pressed under my right elbow slides to the ground. Absorbed in my food, I don’t notice.

“‘Scuse me, miss?” says a man with Thufir Hawat eyebrows and a bulbous nose. “You dropped your folder.”

“Huh? What?” Startled, I whirl around, losing all sense of equilibrium. SPLASH – steaming coffee splatters my wrist and seeps into my white sleeve.

“Ow! Shit!” Still clutching the coffee, I lift my arm to lick off the hot liquid before it starts blistering my skin. Coffee smears across my cheeks, destroying any attempt at makeup. My computer bag falls from my shoulder into the crook of my other arm, upsetting the sandwich. To keep it from hitting the ground, I let go of the brimming cup and snatch the aluminum-wrapped egg in mid-air.

BAM – the coffee explodes on the platform, splattering my bag, pants, feet, and neighbors.

“Oh God…I’m so sorry–” My apologies are pointless; three coffee-soaked professionals glare at me with baleful expressions.

The train doors open and commuters rush out, stepping over the puddle of coffee pooling on the platform. Clutching my sandwich in one grease-stained hand, stray papers under my chin, and my laptop bag in the other hand, I flail my way into the car and do a quick status-check: shirt permanently stained, hand burned, face smudged, shoes and pants coated in sticky brown goo.

“Uh, are you ok?” asks the bushy-browed man from the platform.

Nodding yes, I heave a sigh. “Believe it or not, this is a pretty average morning.”