I Don’t Know What My Elbows Are Doing Anymore

There’s a very specific type of rage that only erupts when you bump your elbow on the edge of a table that you positioned. Like you, personally. You set it there. You saw it. You walked by it seventeen times. And yet, boom — it takes your elbow out like it's in a street fight for survival.

I used to think I was clumsy. Now I know my elbows are actively plotting against me. Not the rest of my body, just... the elbows. Like they’ve taken independent contracts with nearby door frames and kitchen counters to ruin my life in small, painful increments.

Every corner of my home knows me on a deeply physical level. The fridge? We've had collisions. The wall next to my bathroom? Hasn’t seen a peaceful week in years. And don’t even speak to me about the armrest on my office chair. That thing moves two inches just to mess with my radius bone.

At this point, I’ve said “sorry” to inanimate objects more than I’ve said it to people. And sometimes the “sorry” comes out weirdly sincere. Like I genuinely feel bad for disturbing the emotional peace of a bookshelf.

It’s not just at home. Public spaces are a minefield. Ever tried walking through a crowded corridor and almost shoulder-charging a stranger? That deeply awkward double side-step where both of you end up performing some bizarre synchronised waltz of humiliation? Yeah. I’m a regular in that genre of suffering.

And somehow, I’m always the one who says sorry first, even though we both know it was the hallway that failed us — not our souls. I even once apologized to a mannequin. In full sincerity. Loudly. In public. It was wearing a hat, okay?

Let’s talk staircases. My elbows, for reasons unclear to science, like to flare out at random while ascending. So if you’re behind me, just know that danger is real. I don’t know when it started, but I’ve caught myself doing that weird chicken-arm thing, where both elbows are just… floating like they're preparing for liftoff.

And I swear my knees are starting to join the rebellion. The other day, I lightly jogged up three steps and made a noise so primal, the neighbor’s cat refused to make eye contact with me.

It’s like my limbs used to be team players — coordinated, efficient, graceful even. Now they’re all freelancing. Everyone’s freelancing. My legs are on a personal mission to trip over air, my shoulders randomly lurch when someone says “Excuse me,” and my pinky toe is legally banned from corners.

But the elbows, oh, the elbows are the ringleaders. It’s always them. Slinking around like rogue agents of destruction. I tried carrying a tray of snacks once and somehow elbowed myself in the stomach. Physics cannot explain this.

Have you ever confidently walked into a room and then instantly bumped into something? And instead of regaining dignity, you try to act like it didn’t happen, even though the entire room heard that THWACK? Like, “Nope, not me. Just practicing interpretive dance. Totally intentional.”

The worst part is how unpredictable it all is. There’s no warning. You could be having a great day — feeling balanced, emotionally stable, semi-capable of basic movement — and then WHAM, your left elbow slams into the edge of a cabinet and suddenly you’re questioning your whole ancestry.

I used to think I needed more confidence. Turns out I just needed less elbow.

So I’ve developed coping strategies. I walk slower now. Arms tucked. Eyes squinted like I’m navigating through a laser maze. I even gave up gesturing too passionately while talking — because one time, I flailed too hard and knocked over a water bottle display at a pharmacy. I left in silence, dignity in shambles, hydration products rolling freely behind me.

If you relate to this — if you, too, feel personally attacked by stationary furniture — you are not alone. You don’t need a self-help book. You need bubble wrap and gentle words.

And possibly a support group called “Oops. Again.” where we meet weekly, arms safely folded, and share stories about unexpected object collisions that rewired our personalities.

Anyway, I’m off to pad my door frames and reconsider all my life choices. And elbows? If you're listening — just chill, okay?

Let me walk through this world without becoming a full-body slapstick sketch.