It is Susie’s turn to pick topic o’ the week (yes I missed last week’s because I was too INDECISIVE over the topics) and she has picked P.E. I’ll assume I’m not out of the loop on some other joke and this just means Phys Ed.

My earliest memory of P.E. begins a long history of bad things being associated with this extracurricular school activity. I was in the 2nd grade, attending Sheridan Hills Christian School in Hollywood, Florida. I remember, we were in the gym, dressed in our little running shorts (complete with white piping) and divvying up for volleyball teams. As if 2nd graders could play volleyball all that well but I remember the net being up so that must be what we were doing.

Suddenly, a crackly voice broke the loudspeaker and requested so-and-so come to the front office. I ignored this at first until the voice repeated and it was my name. My name? Why am I being called? Only bad kids have to go to the front office? What did I do? The P.E. teacher quickly got me to gather my things and shuffled me back to my classroom where I picked up the morning’s art project: some kind of plastic tray that we had glued buttons and pipe cleaners onto, and I was then taken to the ominous front office, where I was semi-relived to see my father. I remember that he didn’t say anything. We just got into his blue Toyota Corolla and headed towards home, then past home, the into the hospital only 2 blocks from home. I remember the stark white walls, the smell of cleaner and old people, and my dad leading me by the hand until we saw my mom. This was when she had her ectopic pregnancy; she lost twins that were a boy and a girl. I was pretty scared and I actually didn’t even know why she was there until much later in life.

In the fourth grade, at Orange Brook Elementary, I was running around the huge ass field by the playground as most kids do during P.E. It was free day so you could do whatever and I found a basketball. Just as I was gearing up to shoot, a larger girl named Kenzi Mobley came up and demanded I give her the ball. Of course I said no, having just overcome a bully last year, and this was certainly not the answer she expected. Grasping to pry it from my fingers, I held strong. Then, out of my sight, she geared up and let loose a giant fist, connecting with my jaw. I remember falling and then having an asthma attack, then running to the front office to get the Ventolin inhaler my mom kept for me up there. I distinctly remember that she never got punished and I was told to learn to share.

In high school, I would use asthma as an excuse not to run the track at Lake Brantley. Coach Gooch (no, I’m not making that up) would let me sit out so I kept doing it. On days I was forced to participate, I dreaded changing. I would always go into the bathroom, reasoning with myself that I actually had to use it, not just change. But as cliche as it is, I hated being in the locker room when all the girls were getting undressed. I know how it’s this traumatic experience for guys in the locker room but no one ever brings up the women’s because our male run society has this idea that women all walk around naked and fondle each other because we’re all ok with that, just like the movies. Well it made me uncomfortable as hell. Not because I was flat-chested or grossly overweight or anything, just because it felt like, this is school, why do we have to break so many rules of personal space and privacy?

One day, this tall blond girl made fun of me for always going into the bathroom to change and of course, I had to just play it off, ha ha ha. But I look back at that and think that P.E. has never EVER been a pleasant experience for me, even though I was a damn fast runner and excelled at almost every sport. Something always brought me down from my pinnacle, making me afraid of that one hour of the schoolday.