My Love/Hate Relationship with the Gym
It’s Presidential Fitness Week in high school. All of us stood in our worn-out purple gym shorts and a gold shirt with the school’s tornado mascot on it.
The gym teacher wore his whistle around his neck on a chain that had seen better days. He also wore a polo, shorts, and a ball camp.
“Alright, gentlemen, line up,” he would scream followed by a blow of the whistle.
We did as he said. What followed was a series of various exercises, including planks, push-ups, crunches, jumping jacks and other similar exercises.
I don’t recall how many of each I did. It didn’t matter anyway.
I was out of breath.
I wasn’t obese by any means. I also wasn’t skinny. Some might have called my size “husky” and I would have to agree with them.
I was just a big boy, but nowhere near overweight or anywhere in shape.
My size was in the middle of the pack.
