Every so often, I have a day (or a week) where my innate clumsiness comes out to play. When that happens, look out world—Erin is about to be a bull in a china shop! Whatever can be broken will probably break, whatever can be spilled, will probably spill. I’ll most likely end this period of time with numerous bruises and stains I can’t account for. My grandma calls it “the dropsies.” I was greatly inflicted with this condition as a child, and slightly less so as an adult. Still, it happens more often than you’d think.
Last week was one of those weeks. My dad told me I had the full moon to thank for my clumsiness. I rolled my eyes and thought, “Yeah, OK Dad,” until I kept knocking over the saltshaker. Repeatedly. For days. Did this mean something!? In case he was right and wives' tales and superstitions had some bearing on the situation, I decided to cover my bases. By the end of the week I'd thrown an awful lot of salt over my shoulder.