Grace

There's a reason my Mom used to call me Grace, and it wasn't because I was full of it.

Case in point, from about five minutes ago:

I see the maintenance guy painting the door frames in the front office, and think that I'm going to have to be careful not to walk into those door frames today (I have a tendency to brush up against walls when I walk, because I'm just that graceful).

Five minutes later I'm heading up to use the restroom. I brush right up against the freshly painted door frame, leaving a ragged white streak of paint on my gray shirt sleeve.

Foreshadowing is alive and well in my life.