Doesn’t that sound better than awkward, clumsy, maladroit, klutzy, hamhanded, butterfingered, or graceless? It means the same thing. “Foozling” comes from the verb foozle meaning to play or move clumsily. It’s a real word. It comes from a German word fuseln. I foozled all day long yesterday; it happens. I’ve been known to foozle away entire days.
I began life as a foozling baby. Most infants come out head first. I came out sideways, right hand and foot competing to see which would see daylight first in a “Taa-daa” start to life. It should have been a portent that I need to wear padding on my knees and bum.
I was foozling enough as a child for Mother to sign me up for dance lessons in the hope that I’d learn the dexterity that I’d missed out on when God was handing out grace. (Must have thought God said “Race!” and you know how I hate running.)
I took piano lessons as a child. My parents knew in a few months that I not only would not master the piano but might cause the teacher a psychotic break as she listened to my fumbling attempts to play “I Had a Little Red Pony.” In the required end of the year recital, I played a duet with my little sister, plunking the D and G keys on the bass end of the scale when Mary Ann glared at me. Embarrassing? Probably but it was the price I gladly paid to escape another year of piano lessons.
I had similar experience with playing basketball. In our small south Texas town of George West, there was a limit to the sports girls could play. If you weren’t in band (God forbid), you played basketball. After my 7th or 8th jammed finger, 3rd twisted ankle, and probably 5th busted knee, the coach suggested that I might like to be team statistician.
I’ve blamed my foozlingness on being left-handed, but I’m not sure that explains it. Our dad said that it was because I had an undefined center of gravity and that I’d do better when I attained my full height. I like that one but I got full height by 16 and still have a hard time not dripping over dust mites.
I think part of the problem is that I’m always 2 or 3 places at one time in my mind. When I can stay in the moment, I do better. The problem with dividing myself into sections when I work is that I tend to rush what I’m doing to get to the next place in time. I dumped an entire cup of coffee into my printer the other day when I was on my cell phone to the City, the office phone to Max, and trying to look up a detail on a set of plans while sending “print” to a letter. (HP LaserJet P2035n Printers are as good as new after they dry. The air blowing out of them when they print is like a coffee room deodorizer, though. I like it, but you might not.)
Will I ever be able to slow down, pay attention, and just savor the moment? You would think I would have figured that little jewel of knowledge years ago. It would have probably saved my aching knees and fingers.
For now, I’ll remember to:
- Tie my shoelaces
- Not spit into the wind
- Choose the paper or plastic option at the dinnerware store
- Say no to Euro-Pro Ninja knives, 3″ heels, and inline skates
- Wear any color but white
- Only borrow things I can afford to replace if broken
- Keep caps on the Sharpie markers
- Separate liquids and electronics