Open Says Me

I'm walking into closed doors and that's not figuratively. I'm literally walking into doors – stubbing my toes, banging my knees or smashing my nose. It started happening at night while I was trying to feel around in the dark. (Everyone sleeps with their doors open because of the air-conditioning and they're usually in bed before 10 p.m. So I keep the lights off as a common courtesy.) At first I thought it was because I wasn't used to my surroundings, but it's not like the walls moved. They're in the same places they've been my entire life. I'm sure for the common observer it would be hilarious to see me - not even slowing pace - running straight into a door. If it just happened at night I wouldn't care so much but the doors are popping up unexpectedly during the day. I feel like a Stooge. I started to wonder if walking into doors is going to be a metaphor that'll soon become familiar in other aspects of my life. Does each closed door represent a decision I need to make? Am I too afraid to take risks and open those doors? And what will eventually be the best way to open those doors – by knocking politely or forcing my way in with my chainsaw blazing? Could I be exhibiting lost memories from a previous life when I was the goat behind door No. 2 from Let's Make a Deal? Or am I just grabbing at straws to avoid admitting I'm a klutz who really needs to start paying attention to her environment? I think it's the latter. At least I haven't done any real damage yet – no blood or nasty bruises. Either way, let's hope I can recover soon. Maybe I should have mom draw me a map.