Thank Goodness.

We did an exercise in memoir class last night about things we remember and I was reminded of a very traumatic occurrence in my childhood, which I am still attempting to unravel. The annual physical fitness test.

Does anyone else remember this? I'd get to P.E. class in elementary school and the coach would ruin the entire day (and the ones after) by announcing that--get excited!--it was physical fitness test week! I would try to forget about this annual event all year and then one day it was sprung on me, out of nowhere, typically when I was feeling like everything was going so well, and them BAM!

I didn't know much about the tests, just that they were mandatory and that kids allllll around the country were doing them, our coach said, as if that was supposed to make me feel better. These tests were devised by the President, I assumed, as the official title of this week-of-fun was "The President's Challenge," and consisted of the following: having someone hold down your feet while you struggled to do as many sit-ups as possible in 60 seconds, running the mile, doing pull-ups (or the coach would lift you up to the monkey bars and you would just hang there holding your chin above the bars for as long as possible if you were like me and couldn't actually do a pull-up). I can't remember if there were any more tests, I must have blocked them out.

All I know is that I never got the point of any of this. Some of my classmates did. I remember Lauren speeding through sit-ups, doing 63 one year while I had only attempted 25 (and only 20 "counted" my coach said because I didn't get all the way up on some of them. Thanks.). Donald's mile was 6.5 minutes, while I trudged to the finish line in 14, huffing and puffing with Jenn or Ciji or Alana, our cheeks red, our legs exhausted.

It wasn't like I was out of shape. I did ballet four times a week. I ran around outside. I swam. But I could not perform these tests to save my life. While the seasoned elementary school athletes got mini-trophies and fancy blue ribbons for their performances, all I got was a red "participation" patch with an eagle on it. I stuck these in a drawer somewhere.

Today, I still run a 14-minute mile. And when I say run, loyal readers know I can only "run" for about two minute max consecutively. I do crunches, not sit-ups. I'm not an athlete. And part of me equates this to the spirit-crushing forced exertion of the physical fitness test. I'm exhausted just thinking about it. Of all the traumatic experiences of my young life--getting busted stuffing my bra, the fiasco on the Washington D.C. trip, the unrequited crushes--the physical fitness test might just be the one I am most happy to leave behind. Thank goodness. Now, time to go eat a cookie.