The Unfairness of Growing Up
I’m still a little miffed about it
I’m in junior high, decked out in the mandatory red gym T-shirt and clashing blue shorts, waiting my turn for the performance. I’m standing in line, repeating a silent mantra: I will live through this.
Someday, I tell myself, this will be behind me. It won’t kill me.
It won’t kill me. IT WON’T KILL ME.
I watch Susan Brewer flying through the air in a perfect cartwheel, then sprint across the mat for a round-off, as she completes her floor exercise. I’m up next.
It’s time for the gymnastics routine from hell.
I’ve spent a solid month learning how to contort with the full knowledge I sucked at it. I vaulted and landed upright on the squishy blue mat. I didn’t die from a head injury but I barely had time to relish my victory because after “mastering” that apparatus, we were led to the parallel bars. We mounted like lemmings, then realized we had the upper body strength of a noodle.
The dust had barely settled when our gym teacher trundled us to the uneven bars, at which point I was laughing raucously (inside) at the absurdity of this fruitless endeavor. Those Olympic gymnasts sure made it look easy! The only girl who managed more than hanging off the bars like a terrified koala bear was…
