Superman

 I am not graceful. 

I like to think that if there was an Olympics for people who walk into walls and chairs or fall upstairs, that I would be more decorated than Simone Biles. If there is something accident-prone or clumsy, I've done it. 

I do not like attention. 

I wish I did; I've always envied people who could make eye contact without desperately trying to or talk in front of people without constantly misspeaking. 

When my lack of coordination and fear of attention collide, my stomach churns like a washing machine of anxiety. 

When I was in college, I had just finished a quick, in-between work and classes lunch by myself. I placed the empty cup, bowl, plate, knife, fork, and spoon on my plastic tray. I threw my purse on my shoulder and stood up, planning to drop my dishes on the conveyer belt and leave. 

As I walked away from my table, I noticed two of my professors were sitting together in the cafeteria. One taught history of the 60s, and the other taught philosophy of sports-two classes I adored and actively participated in. The three of us nodded hellos, and I went on my way. When I walked by the register where you swiped your meal card, I felt myself go airborne. 

I wasn't wearing heels; the floor wasn't slippery. I had tripped over nothing. Nothing. And it wasn't a little trip; it was a full-on, arms straight out in front of me, legs straight out behind me, entire body in the air for a split second, lunch tray launching kind of trip. 

If a student lying FACE DOWN on the cafeteria floor wasn't enough to make time stop as if in a movie, my plate, cup, and bowl made deafening clunks as they scattered in three different directions. My silverware seemed to be singing at the top of their metallic lungs, making the unmistakable clanks of cutlery landing where it shouldn't. 

My professors, of course, saw everything, and BOTH rushed over to help. As I peeled my cheek off the filthy linoleum, I quickly prayed that I was dreaming or dead. Nope. Very alive, as my heart ached from the dread and adrenaline...and the stares. So many stares.

As I struggled to stand, my professors gathered the items that had exploded all over the place and helped me up. 

Both let out gasps of, "Are you okay!? Are you okay!?"

That, I thought, was an interesting question to ask someone who had been a human floor tile seconds ago. I was physically fine, aside from some developing purple bruises on my knees and elbows, but mentally? Embarrassed for life.