Gym Jam
When I was in high school and we had to do those silly "What job would work for you?" tests. Of course, being the quietly rebellious geek I was, I went through and filled in random circles on the testing form, not even reading the questions. (I protested tests like these. I protested a lot of things, not for ethical reasons, but because I was lazy)
The test results came back and I met with my guidance counselor, who informed me that the job I would be best suited for was: Tree Branch Trimmer. She spent an entire half hour telling me the benefits of tree branch trimming and explained how I could be a great success if I would simply *apply* myself. It was a Breakfast Club moment.
I was really shy in high school, and I was extremely athletically challenged. I was tall, skinny and very uncoordinated. My least favorite class was PE (Pure Evil) and until ninth grade, I would suffer through the humiliating 45 minutes of class: Last to be picked for teams. Last stuck on the Dodge Ball court because my aim was pathetic and I threw like a girl. (The kind of stuff Carrie movies are made of, except I couldn't move objects with my mind. And nobody in our school had pig's blood.)
In ninth grade, my best friend Jennifer and I realized that if you don't show up for gym class on the first day of school, they take your name off the roster, assuming there was some sort of technical scheduling glitch.
Absent, we were. First day of school, dressed in our Nikes and jordache jeans, Izod collars up: we hid in a bathroom stall, praying nobody would find us, and it worked. The gym teacher crossed our names off the attendance list, sent it to the main office and asked them to update the records. Life was roses and chocolate covered cherries and fruity Runt candies all rolled into one festive dodge ball moment. We were tasting freedom for the first time in our lives and it was sweet, indeed.
Grading? Not a problem. We learned quickly that the gym teachers would give grades based on (what we assumed was) gender, or outside participation. So if you were male, you automatically scored a B. If you were female, you automatically scored a C. If you played a sport your grade would go up to either an A or a B. And if you did *well* in a sport, you would get the golden A, whether you were male or female.
Fair? You be the judge.
Young Heather and Young Jennifer scored solid "C"s all through high school and we were proud of our grades.
For three and a half years, we coasted through gym class unscathed. We found peace and quiet and a noticeable lack of questioning teachers in the Audiovisual room, where we would pretend we were airline pilots and plug in wires, wear headphones, talk into microphones and pretend we were crashing through mountains in our high-tech-super-jets. (We should've been in a creativity class, not GYM!)
Things were going well until the third quarter of our senior year. Report cards came out, and we both scored big fat "F"s in phys ed.
WHA?????
We phoned each other that night to discuss strategies.
Jen: We have to bite the bullet and go. We can't FAIL HIGH SCHOOL because of PHYS ED!
Me: (panic mode) What if we can't graduate?? What if we fail senior year and can't graduate because of GYM?????
Jen: Stop panicking! We won't fail! We just have to make an appearance for one silly semester and we'll be fine.
Me: OK. So tomorrow we go to class?
Jen: Yes. Cool?
Me: Yes. Cool.
The next day we brought sneakers, shorts, tee-shirts and all the usual stinky-gym-crap. We didn't have lockers, because we were never officially enrolled in class, so we had to leave our regular clothes rolled up under the benches.
We cautiously peered into the gym, understanding the humiliating fate at hand . . .
Note: I still hate that gymnasium smell. You know the one - I can smell it in Brian's toy closet once in a while and it makes me think of jogging around that shiny gym floor, knees and palms of hands ripping apart as you trip over your own shoelaces, squeaky-skid-bare-skin-on-gym-floor-sliding. Bare knee skin ripping off, leaving a raw, fiery pink patch. You can't walk, because your knees no longer bend . . .
Or that PANG-WHAP of that fat pink Dodge Ball smacking against your bare arm, legs or worse yet: your face.
Or how about volleyball - you're serving and you are so uncoordinated that you CAN NOT hit the ball over the net. Ever. And the gym teacher decides to be generous, in an attempt to help you learn a very useful skill, and has you do it over and over and over and over . . .
And lovely spring arrives - beautiful weather, trees blossoming. Teacher decides it's time for softball. Can you hit the ball? No. Never once.
Not everyone in this world is blessed with coordination and the ability to hit things with wooden sticks. Some of us are gentle beings, and whipping fatballs at people isn't fun for us.
Let the non-athletic bunch go out and plant a garden. Let us climb trees. Let us swing on the playground, just DON'T MAKE US PLAY DODGEBALL!
Jennifer and I lined up with the rest of the class. The rules were, that as the teacher read your name, you were instructed to step forward. She finished the attendance list, and Jen and I had not stepped forward.
Teach: YOU TWO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING BACK THERE! WHY HAVEN'T YOU STEPPED FORWARD?
(Have you ever noticed that phys ed teachers never speak. They scream. All the time.)
Us: Ummm, well, ummmm, you didn't call our names.
Teach: WHAT? (scanning list) HEY! YOU TWO AREN'T EVEN SCHEDULED TO BE IN THIS CLASS! WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT THAT! YOU CAN'T JUST SNEAK IN AND GET OUT OF YOUR STUPID ART CLASSES! YOU GOTTA COME TO ME FIRST IF YOU WANT EXTRA GYM TIME! NOW GET BACK TO YOUR OTHER CLASS AND NEXT TIME ASK ME!!!!!!!
We quietly backstepped to the locker room, afraid that sudden movements will cause someone to figure out the truth.
We changed into our regular clothes, tiptoed back to the AV room and crossed our fingers, hoping that the gym teacher wouldn't call down to the office and ask about our whereabouts.
The final week of school arrived and we were panicked, to say the least. We blew off the rest of the semester assuming that whatever happened would be our destiny. We had *no idea* what our gym grades would be. We were certain that we will be the only two students in the history of our school to fail senior year because of gym class.
Our report cards are mailed and arrive in our homes. We called each other on the phone to complete the ceremonial reading of the grades.
Physical Education : C
Comment: Student does not wear proper attire to gym class.
We graduated, partied, and quietly laughed at our narrow escape, and ultimate victory. Life can be pretty grand. Score one for the clutzes of the world. :-) Since those dreaded days I have NEVER touched a volleyball, never swung a bat, never run around a smelly gym, and I have never - nor will I ever again, suffer through the painful humiliation of that cursed sport, DODGEBALL.
Peace, till next.