Hello. My name is Aaron… and I’m a dropper.
It’s only been a few hours since I last dropped something. This morning as I reached into the drawer for a pair of socks, as soon as I picked them up, I dropped them on the floor. I swore under my breath as I bent down to pick them up again. My second attempt was much more successful as I maintained a kung-fu death grip upon them.
There was a time when it seemed that there was no name for my condition. And then one evening, while watching Friends with a group of friends, we realized that I suffered from the same affliction as Chandler Bing. In “The One with the Ball,” Ross and Joey start throwing a ball back and forth and realize that they’ve been doing it for hours without dropping it even once. Then Monica joins in. And when Chandler wants to play too, she almost refuses to let him in because he’s a “dropper.” He successfully plays with everyone and never once drops the ball.
But at the end of the episode, he asks why they all think he’s a dropper. This is followed by a montage of Chandler dropping different things. Hilarious on television. Problematic in real life.
I wasn’t allowed to play intramural flag football with the other kids in college. I used to say it was because I was too out of shape for all the running involved. But, really, it was intramural flag football. Was there really that much running involved? No, I knew I would drop the ball if someone foolishly threw it to me. So I watched my friends play from the sidelines week after week.
I drop my keys at least twice a day. It happens when I’m doing something so difficult as pulling them out of my left pocket and transferring them to my dominant right hand.
I drop money, particularly coins. This can be troubling because coins tend to roll away and scatter.
I drop clothes. Not only the pair of socks I mentioned earlier, but t-shirts, jeans, shoes, belts, etc.
Anything that finds its way into my less than capable hands has the potential of being dropped on the ground. It’s a sad and lonely existence. What happens if I have a son someday who wants to play catch in the back yard? No one wants to play catch with a dad that, more often than not, can’t catch the baseball.
Maybe there’s hope for the droppers of the world. Maybe I could get some special Velcro gloves, but then I would need to make sure that every possible item I hold is wrapped in equally appropriate fabric. Perhaps I could wrap duct tape around my hands, sticky side out.
If you see me in public, beware. I am that guy who will pick up one apple of the pile in the produce section, causing all the other apples to tumble onto the floor. I am that guy that will carry too much in his arms and then drop it all in order to catch the one thing you’re trying to throw at me. I am the dropper.