Speaking of high school gym class

     I can’t speak for every girl out there (certainly not the athletic type with muscular legs) but I am pretty sure that gym is the equivalent of walking the plank for the average teenage girl. Remembering my own experience, I always thought that being forced to execute strenuous physical activity during a time of the day chosen for me by some dean I’ve never met was the worst possible punishment. Sign me up for any chemistry lab instead, where I can carelessly mix flammable elements, and call it a day. At the gym, however some serious scheming was necessary to make sure that the least amount of actual activity was performed while appearing to be the MVP, confuse the instructor and get that passing grade. There were three types of teachers: the women of questionable orientation, the really old men, and (everyone’s favorite) the really hot/young lads. Needless to say that one such young man has managed to raise female attendance by 90%. Miraculously, in his class alone, a large number of women have all of a sudden stopped menstruating. Just to give an idea of how attractive this guy was: both I and my friend got hit in the head with a volleyball more times then necessary. Granted, I’m no Gabrielle Reece, but I was still able to hear people scream ‘incoming!’ How many teammates we pissed off by either getting hit or stepping out of harm’s way and letting the ball bounce on the exact spot where our arms had just been extended a few seconds ago. In my defense, the ball weighed so much that it may as well have been a meteor carrying Clark Kent. The real reason I allowed its brutal contact with my face was because I was too busy daydreaming about the incredibly hot (but dumb for passing me) teacher. After countless hits, we were then sent off to math class by the super smart people handling our schedules so we can perform at our optimal level when solving for X (X=50 hits by ball²). Who can then blame us that when basketball season finally arrived we plotted our precious time sitting out on the bleachers better than any conspirators who ever existed. My girlfriend and I cherished those moments of relaxation because we were able to chat in peace. Don’t underestimate our abilities just yet. Although it was difficult to hold a normal conversation while trying to nail a three-point shot, we still managed to do just that since in my mind at least one of us was Michael Jordan and thereby fully capable of carrying the whole team.

Thinking we were smart, once we attempted to forego the whole gym experience altogether by signing up for aerobics. Finally, when that hateful dictator dean eased up and gave us some freedom of choice we quickly grabbed hold of the chance only to be disappointed later. Aerobics was the worst mistake I could’ve made because there was nowhere to run and/or hide. I had to exercise and I had to like it. There were no bleachers, no hot instructors, no cute crushes, and definitely no chatting; just twenty girls furiously burning off the weight of the world.