Gym class. I fucking hated gym class.
Especially dodge ball, or as I like to call it nowadays, slaughter ball.
That actually did happen to me, twice. The first time, it broke my glasses, and left me with a permanently indented nose.
The second time just pissed me off, and taught me that swearing really does feel pretty damn good.
I sucked at everything sports related. Running, kicking, throwing, sit-ups, dodging, batting, catching, and thrusting my body in ways that should be illegal before you become an adult.
I was always picked last for teams, not like I could really blame the captains. I was a burden, a useless mass that just stood there, hoping not to be forced to partake in whatever activity that was happening that day.
If I did end up having to do something, I messed it up. Then I would receive dirty looks, and muttered complaints about my suckage.
Even the gym teacher was disgusted with me.
The thought of gym class gave me an anxiety attack. How I wanted to just stay in the classroom, reading a book. Or washing chalkboards.
Or cleaning up the vomit from that first grader who ate too much glue during art class.
But no, it was a law, a rule. All kids must participate in gym class, no matter what their athletic ability was. It was like having my head stuck in a banister, trapped like an animal in a cage.
Couldn’t they have just given me a basketball, put me in a corner somewhere, and let me bounce it by myself? That’s technically exercise, right? Just let me bounce the fucking ball around, man. If I didn’t catch it, nobody would care.
Relay races were an invitation for the boys in my class to tease me about my boobies. They started coming in at around age 9. Look at her, she’s like Dolly Parton!
Dolly Parton boobs!
Thanks, Dolly. I know that now.
My memories of gym class still haunt me to this day.
Tell me, did you love or loathe P.E.?