Grace: Simple elegance or refinement of movement. The moment my mother chose to name her first born child Grace was a moment of total irony. We’re talking about a “fireman accidentally burning his or her kitchen down” level of irony. Not ten days ago my dad and I were sent on a mission to buy groceries for a long car ride. I spent most of the time buying foods with a direct correlation to childhood obesity, and the rest of it buying foods that were actually on the list. We chose the self checkout aisle because we didn’t have very many items, and it’s faster. Little did I know, this fatal mistake would haunt me for the rest of my life.

I had all the items bagged up and was ready for my bi-monthly bicep workout carrying the load to our car. I looked over at the gallon of milk I had teetering on the edge of the counter and thought to myself, that’s definitely not a stable position for milk to be in. Perhaps I should move that, or at least not swing my arm around like a chimpanzee? I should have followed my instincts because a split second later, the teetering milk was now firmly placed. On the concrete floor. Bursted open. My feet were glued to the horror scene as I watched the liquid flow from it’s plastic prison like a horde of escaped convicts. However, the real humiliation started when everyone began to gather around my calcium catastrophe.

I remembered that the Eagan Cub Foods has the local sports teams bag your groceries in the hope you donate to their program. That particular day was being held none other than the boy’s varsity soccer team. And they saw the whole thing. They were all attractive, and I was all standing in a puddle of milk. All I could think of doing was smiling  and waving, as if I had just won an Olympic medal for “Dairy Destroying”. Then the manager of the store came over and started apologizing to me. I had just exploded a milk bomb all over the aisle, and caused more backup than 494 at 7:30 in the morning. Not to mention the old lady behind me was starting to get crotchety.

Finally, some reluctant employee cleaned up the milk with a broom and some futuristic powder, and that was that. I grabbed a new gallon of milk, the overly-sympathetic manager still apologizing to me as I walked. She gave me an, “I’m so glad I don’t have a teenager in my life” look the entire way back. After this display of my ungraceful nature I briefly considered creating a new identity, that it would make Witness Protection Program cases look like Superman’s alter-ego, but decided against it. At least I’ll always have the promise of a back-up career in self-deprecating comedy.