Years ago my sister achieved every twelve-year-olds dream: she obtained an Indo Board, aka Balance Board. The Indo Board was to better her balancing skills for skateboarding like an imaginary surfboard refines surfing skills. She skateboarded almost as often as Paris Hilton has communicated an intelligent comment to the media. My sister's Indo elation equated that of Michael Jackson's when dropped off at a playground during elementary school recess.
A few nights after my sister's board acquisition, I investigated my balancing abilities only to realize I have none. This didn't come as too much of a shock, as I had previously discovered my clumsy propensity on countless occasions. A few months prior, I had crashed my bicycle into a truck. Just as I grasped the glee of wind acceleration with downward speed, I approached a wide turn. Instead of leaning slightly and turning, I collided with the truck parked directly in front of me and fell over like a fly having been buffeted by a fly swatter.
My dad has always had an elevated opinion of his athletic ability. A few years ago my college soccer team convened at my house for dinner after a game in the area. Upon viewing the small shrines my dad had posted around the game room of his football-playing self, my teammates deigned my father Uncle Rico from Napoleon Dynamite. They still refer to him as Uncle Rico.
My dad cleared a small area in the living room and stepped on the Indo Board with the confidence of a professional snowboarder. He rotated back and forth, legs wobbling like Bambi when taking his first steps. And then he fell, blasting into the edge of the board and then the floor with the gracefulness of a mentally disabled triceratops. He moaned, much like I imagine said mentally disabled triceratops would moan, having been felled by a balancing board. He never attempted balance on the Indo Board again. My sister cultivated consummately. I have since ceased all balance tests. I blame my balance absence, like many of my life's deficiencies, on my harrowing hearing and vision. I accept that before the termination of my life, I might have the visual capability of Helen Keller. At least I can tell my future children that their acne has a purpose: I will be able to compose braille messages from their blemishes.
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