Flashback Friday: Gym Class

I know I'm not the only person who hated gym class, but I also know there are a number of people who actually thought it was fun. I was originally going to call this flashback "Things that are supposed to be fun but actually aren't fun at all" but then I realized that that phrase applies to far too many things (dancing, parties, Monopoly, live music, New Year's Eve, college, horseback riding, and the list goes on). Anyways, someday I'll delve deeper into my hatred for basically everything in life, but today I'm going to limit it to gym class activities.

I always hated gym class. Even in the earliest years of school, I hated it. I think I have one fond memory in my entire history of "physical education" and it was climbing a rope in elementary school. That was sort of fun and it wasn't the kind of thing I could really do outside of the Ledgeview gymnasium.

My mind was constantly whizzing, trying to think of a valid excuse for which I would not have to participate. I remember being forced to "crab walk" laps around the gym in early elementary school, which, by the way, is an incredibly disturbing image. 30 small children scrambling around a gym floor, belly-side up? I'm not quite sure what I was supposed to gain physically or otherwise from such an exercise, but I did it. Anyways, someone once stepped on my hand, and while it didn't hurt that much, I hoped that it might be my ticket out of gym for the day. It was not. All I know is that this class was certainly the punishment for some terrible crime which I had not yet comitted.

Middle school, predictably, was the worst. We focused on various sports for a number of weeks at a time: 2 weeks of badminton, 3 weeks of soccer, and so on. I think it was sometime around the 2nd or 3rd day of the softball unit that I was forced to actually play. I always got to the very back of the line, usually ensuring that I never had to bat, but somehow the teacher got wise to that trick.

So there I am, holding a bat, and pretty sure that I'm supposed to hit something with it. I can't recall if I ever did. But all of a sudden, people, my "teammates" most likely, start yelling at me. I don't understand what they're saying, so I just stand there in a confused panic. Then someone tells me "just run!" So I placed the bat on the ground, and started to "just run." This was followed by even more yelling. Evidently, I had run in the wrong direction. How was I supposed to know?

I never made that mistake again. But that's only because I made sure to sit out for the remainder of the unit, nursing my possibly broken pinky toe.

But it wasn't just softball that I hated. It was really everything where fast movement, quick reactions, and teamwork were involved. I think volleyball was just as bad, if not worse. At least with softball, no one expects you to do anything for the majority of the game. In volleyball, everyone's playing all the time, and the ball is always bouncing around, threatening to hit you on the head and make you look stupid.

For the most part, when an object the size of my head comes flying at me, my inclination is to duck and avoid being hit by it, but I learned that this also elicits yelling from your teammates. Most of my energy in gym class was spent testing my undeveloped powers of kinesis, willing various balls not to land anywhere near me. Unfortunately, I never really mastered it.

During one memorable game, the volleyball came directly to me and I reacted in the appropriate fashion, whacking it over the net. I was glad to be rid of it, but my triumph was short-lived as it smacked some poor girl right in the face. Hard. I would have felt bad regardless, but I'm pretty sure the girl was somewhat mentally retarded. 7th graders are extremely cruel beasts. I remember someone going so far as to congratulate me on nailing the handicapped girl in the face, to which I could only reply that I didn't really mean to.

The only good thing I can say about gym, was that I was never forced to take group showers or anything. I can assure you that if I had, I would have a lot to say about that.

Flashback Friday: Dentist Edition

I've always been kind of obsessed with perfection. Unfortunately, I've never been big on actually putting forth the requisite effort in order to achieve perfection. I remember the first time I was going to get a B on a report card. I was in 4th grade and I wasn't doing that well in Social Studies. I believe it was mainly due to my trouble with maps. I don't know where states or cities are, let alone rivers.

But in all honesty, I don't think I tried that hard. I just expected to get an A because that's how it should be. When I found out that I was getting a B+ I felt as though life as I knew it was over. And in a way, it was. I remember going home and lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, and crying until I could cry no more. I thought about the long-term repercussions of this B+ and how I would never escape this black mark on my record. (I didn't.)

Anyways, I felt similarly about dental health. Getting a cavity was something akin to getting, I don't know, a D in social studies. It also means that you are bad and dirty.

I probably only had a few good years of perfect teeth, but I quickly grew accustomed to going to the dentist and having him congratulate me on my great brushing skills. But when I was maybe 6 or 7, Dr. Lis told me, very gently, that I had a little "sugarbug." I wasn't sure how or where I picked up this sugarbug, but I trusted him when he said it was no big deal and it wasn't my fault.

I was totally cool with a little sugarbug. I've never been a fan of bugs in general, but a sugar bug sounds kind of cute. Like it might be pink.

Unfortunately, it was soon brought to my attention that we needed to return to Dr. Lis so he could fill my sugarbug. That's when I got wise to this whole "sugarbug" ruse. Apparently, a sugarbug is just another word for a cavity!

I was crushed. I was so devastated that I couldn't even cry. It was so completely unreal, that I was sure I must be dreaming.

I literally got into bed that afternoon, set my alarm clock for 15 minutes later, and laid there with my eyes closed, convinced that I was having a terrible dream. I was certain that by the time the alarm went off, I would open my eyes and experience the great relief of realizing that it was all just a dream. Maybe as an added bonus it would also be Halloween.

Alas, my alarm went off, I still had a cavity, and it wasn't any kind of holiday.

Somehow, I survived. I learned to live with a few cavities, and a few more B's on report cards. But I'm not ruling out the possibility that the last 2 decades of my life may have been a very long dream and I will wake up tomorrow and still be 6 years old with perfect teeth. I'm going to set my alarm just in case.