I am extremely clumsy. Two decades of ballet training have had no effect on my ability to control my limbs or navigate my environment effectively. When walking around corners or through doorways, I am certain to slam one side of my body into the closest vertical surface. My living room is an obstacle course; every protruding corner threatens the well-being of my toes and kneecaps. I am no longer allowed to cut anything in our household after having to be rushed to the emergency for stitches in the wake of a bagel-slicing incident in which part of my thumb ended up detached from my body. I cannot hit or catch projectile objects of any kind -- you could throw me a ball the size of a sofa cushion, and it will slip through my hands and land at my feet while I blush furiously and feel like an asshole.
I was surely the only child alive to strike out in a game of teeball.
And so, it was inevitable that my klutziness would manifest itself in some way, even in the highly non-physical legal profession. Fortunately, it has only come out at the most inopportune and potentially humiliating moments.
Exhibit A:
As a junior associate, I attended a bar association conference at a Caribbean resort. Most of the people in attendance were judges or law firm partners. I didn't know a soul there. On the FIRST DAY of the conference, a few generous souls took pity on me (after determining that I was not there with my parents or spouse) and invited me to have lunch with them. We had to wait for a table at the poolside cafe, so we were all standing around chatting. Being the Caribbean, it was hot. And sunny. And I hadn't eaten in a few hours. And someone gave me a rum punch, which I sipped politely but cautiously. And then I knew. The tinny sound in my ears, the static in my vision. I grabbed a chair and sat down, suddenly not caring that no one else in the group was seated. I tried to pretend I was fixing my shoe as I put my head down between my knees. But it was too late.
A clamor of voices.
"Is there a doctor here?!" someone shouted.
I heard the scrape of a metal chair on the cement patio.
"I'M A DENTIST!" a man shouted as he leapt over a chaise lounge and crouched by my side.
The dentist took my pulse and poured a sugar packet into my mouth while I heard various people disclaiming responsibility for me (these were lawyers, after all) -- "she's here ALL ALONE" "what was her name again?" "do we even know she's REALLY with the conference?" I opened my eyes to find my lunch companions huddled nearby, staring down at me. One of them whispered to her husband, "Maybe she's anorexic." I tried to glare at her as the dentist helped me to a chair. Someone brought me some water and a Coke. This is the scourge of being a young, tall, fair-skinned woman of Scandinavian descent: the vasovagal response.
The rest of the week, people treated me like a leper, except for one very delightful couple who took to me in spite of my tendency to get the vapors and invited me to dinner each night. When I returned to work, a partner thanked me for making such a great impression on people on behalf of the firm.
Exhibit B:
Recently, I had to attend a court conference for a big-ass case I'm on. It's one of those huge commercial litigations in which all of the lawyers cannot even fit into the courtroom at one time. It was a rainy day, so the partner ordered a car to take us to court. I was wearing a pantsuit, one of my standard-issue J Crew suits with skinny pants and a cropped jacket.
The partner and I head downstairs to our waiting car. The car is parked about two feet from the curb. 
A Grade IV rapid is gushing between the curb and the car. The partner gets in first. As he scoots across the back seat, I reach my foot out and begin to bend down to clear the top of the car as I bridge the raging river with my legs. The contortions required for this maneuver meet with resistance from my J Crew pants. As descend toward the seat, I hear a VERY LOUD RIP. I feel something give way Down There. I say, "Shit."
The partner, who is talking to me about the case, does not appear to have heard the rip or the curse. He keeps talking. I position my briefcase over my lap and attempt to gauge the severity of the damage while en route to court. It's bad. Stem to stern. The seam has zero connectivity between the bottom of the fly and the back of the waistband. I'm not hearing anything the partner is saying; I'm just thinking about how I am going to get out of the car, go up the steps of the courthouse, make my way to the courtroom and return to my office without showing my ass to the fifty lawyers on this case.
I did have some things going for me: In a moment that now seemed to be divine intervention, I had chosen to wear black hipster bikinis that day instead of a thong. My pants were navy. I was carrying a briefcase containing a legal pad. Drawing upon the skills that I developed while attending a junior high school that forced all the girls to wear white shorts for gym class, I plotted my strategy. Before I knew it, we had pulled up to the courthouse. It was time to act.
As I slid out of the car, I positioned my briefcase over my ass as we walked up the steps. But then, panic ensued: security. I would have to relinquish my briefcase to pass through the metal detectors and THE PARTNER AND SEVERAL OF OUR CO-COUNSEL WERE NOW BEHIND ME. As I placed my bag on the conveyor belt, I turned sideways, giving my companions a profile shot. I sidled through the metal detectors. I am sure everyone thought me insane, but that was infinitely better than having one of them come up to me and whisper, "Dear, you seem to have split your pants" in that concerned, sympathetic tone that the gym teacher used when she came over and told you that you were leaking blood all over your white shorts and you just wanted to DIE.
After retrieving my bag, I saw more lawyers on our case ahead of me. I grabbed the legal pad out of my briefcase and held it in front of me while using my other hand to continue obscuring my butt with my shoulder bag. Nothing to see here folks - just an eager associate, ready to take notes! You never know when I might need to write something down! Could be any minute!
I use this makeshift sandwich board to cover me until we reach the courtroom. 
There, I am relegated with the other associates to the jury box, which is the only place we can fit. The conference lasts all of ten minutes. I sandwich-board myself out of the courthouse. The partner and I make our way back to the office. Before we enter the building, I tell him that I have to run an errand. I rush to the nearest J Crew and buy a new outfit. And ask them to fix my pants, using steel-reinforced thread.
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