240 - #DearDiary
, My parents, especially my father, were desperate for me to take an interest in sports. Any sport.
When football and baseball became out of the question, they moved down the yardstick of masculinity to soccer. When my lameness there was official there were torturous ski trips and the insufferable horror of golf courses. There's a practically unused lacrosse stick my parents never got rid of. There's the memory of a single two mile "mini marathon" that I will never be able to get rid of.
When I was in the third grade I was in a eunuchy co-ed after-school gymnastics class where my best friend and I spent most of the time while waiting for our turns on the trampoline talking about Cher. I could, however, do a passable back bend and a mean cartwheel. My mother reminded me of those achievements as she drove the seventh grade me thirty minutes to the next town in another doomed attempt to make an athlete out of me.
I don't remember why a junior high level gymnastics program was held at the local university... I actually don't remember much here because at this age I started to disassociate when the pain became unbearable. In this instance, the astral projection out of my physical body began just after registration when I realized that I had been assigned to the girls' gymnastics program instead of the boys' because the sign-in lady had thought I was a girl despite my name being Bill.
I do remember sitting on the mats in the middle of a bunch of girls who all seemed to know each other. I remember being mortified. I remember wanting to be invisible. I remember seeing the boys' gymnastics class on the other side of the gym. I remember sadistic looking rings and uneven bars. I remember the boys all had muscles. I remember someone finally figuring it all out, and I remember having to switch sides. I don't want to remember any more.
The good part of the story is that I didn't have to do gymnastics ever again.