Thursday, May 18, 2006

Presidential Fitness Test

You may be unaware (if you were home schooled, dropped out of high school or perhaps are a member of the unholy-undead) that in our country we have and instituted fitness program. Its full and hateful name is The Presidential Fitness Test: National Health Awareness.
It's like hell...believe me.

It makes me think of George W doing little pussy push-ups and crying, but in fact it's a test thats given to both middle school and high school students to make a concensus of how healthy (or unhealthy) our country's children and young adults are. It is in fact, the first step toward a communistic society....well praps not, but at least you can get the jist of how I still feel and felt about it.

When I was in high school (brief though it was for I graduated after only two years) I was the drama league - chorus girl - troubled artist - ballet dancing type of teenager, so suffice to say that athletics wasnt my favorite topic. Now, I can hold my own in a game of tackle football against an all-male on eight - me being the one ::insert suggestive giggle:: .

In my Freshman year of High School Hell we had yet another one of the President's melodramatic fitness tortures. Being all dancer-ish and flexie, all of the trials that included such requirements were a piece of cake. Pull - Ups are another thing all together. Why does the President feel that the youth of America has to have the talent of being to dangle on a piece of horizontally suspended pipe and then be able to pull oneself up and down and up and down and up and down? Dont get me wrong, I like the idea of the whole Up & Down venture, but this was P.E., not a trip to Pleasure Town. So generally, I was miffed.

Its not so much that we were being forced into a competition based show of embarassing physical tasks and while wearing horrible uniforms, in the California sun, after lunch - it was the fact that I have been blessed with extremely full and *bouncy* breasts. Yes, I said bouncy breasts. Do pardon me. So everytime I would make the said pull-ups, my breasts would do a little jig, much to the delight of an audience of sweaty males and my pedophile P.E. teacher, also male. Every Pull-Up was counted, in that long, drawn out and irritating way,


You get my meaning? Its not that I dont love a little love from the men, but in a certain context. To make matters worse, Im a very hygenic young lady, I hate sweat and I cant abide by being swety or smelly. So when I would "dress out" for P.E., I always stripped down all the way to keep my bra and panties smelling and feeling fresh. Yes, I said - braless, bouncy breasts. Again, do pardon me. Our P.E. uniforms, in case you wanted to know, were made of thin white cotton tees and black sort of poly-athletic mesh shorts. Needless to say, it made it quite interesting to exist in the uniform while wearing no ladylike undergarments for over an hour.

Well this year, I decided triumphantly, I would abstain from said President Humilation Booby Torture Awareness Hell and make known my adamant hate and disillusion for it. Walking out to the black top to meet my coach, I was jubilant in the way of a cutithroat feminist and was makng my little modern-woman speech. As always, the hateful black-top-enhanced sun was beaming overhead, already prickling up tiny beads of sweat on the back of neck. When I reached my usual coach area, I opened my mouth to speak, fully ready to scorch my sexist teacher's woman-hating ass. A horse yell cracked at me,

"Miss Petite, get your feet to the loop and run a mile, new requirements to pass Phys. Ed."

At that, he snapped his finger and i stood pouting for a few moments. All my careful woman-hate all bubbled up for nothing. Without doing the run, I was doomed to be in P.E. for years. I took off with softly padding, athletic shoe wrapped feet toward "the loop" which was a 5 lane running track burned into some very sad and prickly grass out in a huge field at the very back of the school property. My mind rippled with thoughts of how I could get of the hateful runnng activity....running a mile with no chestal-support seemed not exactly my cup of tea.

The word "bastard" was in constant loop, passing through my oxygen starved and panting lungs. The run was was it was - hot, sweaty and prolonged. Too bad those adjectives couldnt be used to describe and good romp as opposed to forced exercise. But I sweated it out, my little heart fluttering, it screamed "Oh no! Im going to wilt!", and once I had run from the dreadful field and up onto the black top, I flung myself at the drinking fountain. I drank and washed my face, my flushed cheeks hot and red. I splashed cooling water all over my arms and my throat. My mind whiplashed when I once again heard the buring voice of the coach yelling my name,

"Stop pansying around and get over here for your eval."

He always used abbreviations whenever possible. Kill me now! My mind shouted as I sulkily sauntered over to him and the raised chin-up bars. I heard an uproar of laughter and comments around me as I came nearer to the group of students gathered. I heard "weat t-shirt contest" in with all the other oh-so-literate observations and immediatly looked down - my water fountain cooling session had left the thin white cotton of my gym tee completly wet, and yes the girls were on show, more or less. My arms demurely folded over my decollite and I made for the locker room,

"Stop! Come back and do your eval, Im serious. Do you want to be re-dropped?"

I about-faced and my face dropped in shock. The bastard knew my tee was completly see-through and he was making me do the pull-ups anyway! And in front of bastard-like high school jock-guys! I hurrumphed and walked calmly to them, dropping my arms and raising my chin like a trim pony. Well, if I had to be humiliated, at least I wouldnt show that they impacted me in the least. I reached the bars to choruses of whoops and whistles, no, the coach wasnt going to do anything about it. Bastard. As I began, they all started counting.

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13 - 14 - 15 - 16 - 17 - 18 - 19.....

Their voices lowered now, Was I really doing so many? Didnt I know my nipples were on show? When I had gotten to 26, I screamed a little with the effort and dropped down on my butt in the dust, wincing. So what if I had pulled muscles, at least I had shown them that I didnt care. That I was too high above them to be affected by their childish banter.

I always remain the one that no one can guess about, the one that proves them all wrong. My parents, my friends, sisters, my brother, boyfriends, ex boyfriends, lovers. As long as I respect myself and know who I am - no one can impact me negitively if I dont let them in my mind.

I am woman, hear me roar.



Renard said...

Very cool. You show em Girl. (Although you should've got to 27 at least..)
Au Revoir Me Petite.

La Bohème said...

i think i'm in love with you. i think in a lot of ways we were twins, just in different places at different times.