Menodropsical [men-oh-drop-sick-ul]; the condition of being bullied by gravity.

 One of the things that has me going a bit menoloopal is the dis-coordination that has come upon me.  Things like the simple act of trimming the finger nails can turn into carnage - yes, am still on the' typing of one hand only'. (That's too dramatic YAM - admit it, the other three fingers are working fine.)  Anyway, I do mean 'dis' (as in functional-but-not-quite) and don't mean 'un-coord', for this is not a case of complete lack of timing.

Quite the contrary.  In fact there is a certain balletic rhythm required to chop into the flesh of the under-nail.  That's when the scissors get dropped and the stomach feels sick. The cry of 'men-o-men!' echoes through the residential halls - then 'ul' goes silent with the astonishment of 'how the dickens did I manage that?'.

But the warning signs were all there.  I have simply adapted to skimming over the top and perhaps not reading the deeper import.

Viz - you're losing your balance kiddo.

Take for example the preparation of a mala (floral necklace) to welcome Guruji home.  Sewing a thread through a few stems is something even a child can do.  Leave it to the children I say.  We women of a certain age are guaranteed to drop that darned needle as many times as there are flowers to be pierced upon it.

It is usually found later by one of the brahmacharis stepping in just the right place.

Or the pouring of (very) hot milk into a flask.  Here is the tap, here is the flask.  Bring the two together and turn tap.  Not this gal.  Somehow the tap wanted to win that race.

Thankfully I have a good supply of white cotton saris and the big toe recovered in a few days.  The blister didn't get bigger than a one rupee coin.

Then there's the "glasses".  Here that means the metal tumblers which form part of the all-metal dining arrangements.  Something about these just lends itself to 'let us play dropsy today'.  On the stone floor.  Why it is that a firmly held item with nothing in it should suddenly decide it wants to get down is a mystery to me.  But down it surely wants and that too in a forceful, tuning fork effect.

CLAAAANNGGGGGG! 

And once is never enough for a good tune. In the fluster of retrieving the rebellious article, it will develop india rubber qualities, bouncing away to ring another sweet note of 'catch me if you clang'.  There are varieties to this tune.

The best one is always the one with the thali filled with favourites like idlis and sambar.  The Lord decides it's time to cut that desire out so arranges for Gravity Devata to pull just that weeee bit stronger.  The drag is felt seconds before the thali whips itself from the hands which grip it.  I promise, it's a full-fingered grip.  But that Gravity imp is a determined fellow.

Conversion to plastic tubs with tight (oh so tight) lids for transportation of goodies has been accomplished.  Now to find the plastic toe caps.