Gym Class Superpower

 Last week's post was about what I couldn't do in gym class, which was, unfortunately, a lot.

I couldn't do chin-ups, climb the rope, or run very fast (although the boys always watched when I did), and I was absolutely abysmal at baseball. No one told me I had to put the glove on my non-throwing hand. Have you ever tried throwing a baseball with the glove on? I dare you to try — it's not easy, and the ball doesn't go far.

So, I was always picked last for most team events, basically the 'default' player who wasn't chosen, but fell to the opposite team that chose last. Then we were introduced to Tug-of-War. 

The biggest, tallest, and strongest kids were usually placed at the end, called the Anchor, and that kid was the one who usually helped the team stay behind the Red Line of Death. My team groaned when I was defaulted to them, and though I wasn't fat by any means at the time, my weight was more than the average for a 12-year-old, well-developed, curvy, and I had thick muscles on my legs and thighs. Leg strength was what was needed for this sport, so they made me Anchor, hoping they wouldn't lose within the first few seconds.

I was determined to show them a thing or two. 

One trick that always worked well for me was quickly running to the bathroom before class started and wiping down the bottom of my sneakers with a damp paper towel. This gave me more grip on the polished gym floor when running or performing other activities that required speed or fast turns. 

Done.

I got in my place, took the thick rope in my hands, and wrapped it behind my back, making sure my grip was firm.

The whistle blew, and I whipped around, facing away from the team, and leaned forward hard, using everything I had with the rope wrapped fully around my waist. I'd made my first few hard-earned steps when the whistle blew.

"Stop! Back to place!" yelled the gym teacher. "No one is allowed to turn around. Face forward to the center only!"

Crud. That was a rule?

I wasn't sure if I was the only one who inadvertently broke the rules, but I was glad he didn't single me out. But he didn't say anything about the rope, other than a slight shaking of his head when he saw me wrap it fully around my waist again. 

I formed a different strategy. 

The whistle blew. 

I got a firm grip on the rope, leaned back, and bent my knees, letting all my weight rest on my legs and hips, not depending on my arm strength. My sneakers held fast as I pulled back as hard as I could, keeping my arms straight but loose.

I could feel the rope tension fighting me at first, then a slight slacking before pulling taut again. Every time it went slack, I did the opposite of my classmates and pulled harder, instead of trying to get a better grip.

The red rag tied in the center of the rope shifted to our side of the Red Line of Death inch by inch. 

The whistle blew. We won!

Cheers from my team as they let go of the rope right before I was done pulling, I squeaked in surprise and fell right on my butt. I was a little embarrassed when they laughed at me, but it didn't matter as much because we all realized I had a gym class superpower. 

I was still the weird kid in the class, but whenever we were scheduled for Tug-of-War, I was the first one picked. And it felt good. I knew the reason they chose me, but I didn't care — because I had a skill they needed, and it was nice not being last for once.

Not everyone is built to fit into everyone else's expectations. I knew I would never be a ballerina, play golf, or be a sports star. But if someone needed a push to get their car out of a snowbank, or needed something heavy moved a short distance, I was your gal. 'Strength like bull,' I'd say, in a Russian accent to my friends when they needed help, but after that expenditure of energy, I'd need to rest before I could do it again.

Play to your strengths. Know your weaknesses and don't cater to others' idea of what you're capable (or not capable) of. Be you, and be blessed!

The Golf Lesson

Back in my middle school days, when we used to call physical education Gym Class, we also had lessons on a multitude of skills for those who weren't athletically inclined, and one of those, to the chagrin of my gym teacher, was golf.

Each of us, in our gym rompers — outfits more like giant, ill-fitting royal blue onesies with elastic thigh bands so tight they almost qualified as tourniquets — was given a golf club and a ball and told to use self-control until the teacher could give instructions.

That lasted about 3.2 seconds. It took another twenty minutes for my classmates to retrieve their errant golf balls before the real lesson could begin.

"Okay, everyone!" my teacher bellowed to the gaggle of 11-and 12-year-old chaos critters. "Bend at the waist slightly, and hold the club like this-" demonstrating a V-shape with his arms on the club, "Arms straight, and don't bend your elbows."

Easier for him and all the other boys, but some of the early blossoming young ladies (including, or perhaps especially, myself) were having trouble. I could either bend my elbows or stop breathing because straight arms sent my bosom into my neck, not only blocking my view of the ball, but constricting my breathing as the compressed womanly blossoms impaired my esophagus from its proper functioning.

My teacher, a mostly balding, very tall man with kind blue eyes, made his rounds, clipboard in hand, correcting and instructing my classmates into proper form — until he got to me, the most endowed girl in the group.

I swear I could hear the man utter a small sigh, thinking I didn't hear it. I was always his challenge student because I'd never been able to do pull-ups or get more than two feet off the ground on the rope climb.

"No, your elbows are bent," he said. "Do it like this," and demonstrated again. He noticed me turning a little blue and tried to hide a chuckle. "No, you have to lay your arms on top of your chest."

On top of my chest? I gave him an odd look. "Tell me you're kidding," I said. 

He told me to try. I gave him a knowing little smirk and did exactly as he instructed. My arms were straight, my waist was in perfect form;  however, the golf club was at least a foot off the floor. Unless I bent in half, there was no way that club would hit a ball, unless I used a railroad spike as a tee. We both looked at the club, then at each other. I shrugged, looking sheepish, and he shook his head, trying not to grin.

"You get a C," he said, marking it down on his clipboard before walking away.

He always encouraged me to try things, but after a while, we had an understanding. I had muscle, but it was short bursts of strength-muscle, not athletic endurance-muscle. And he learned later on that I had a place in the gym world after all — but that's a story for another day.

My Daughter, the Demon Fighter

My daughter moved out of the house (sort of) to the job of her dreams. She's been working toward running a horse camp for more than a decade, and an opportunity arose to work at a Christian ranch camp that plans to start a horse therapy branch in September.

She's staying on the grounds, playing house mom to the under-18-year-old counselors, bunking with them until personal housing is provided. This is something she had to do anyway, as it's never a good idea to let teenagers run loose in mountain country, even if the boy counselors weren't in another cabin on the other side of the ranch campgrounds.

This helps prevent the 'I'm sorry, but your daughter got eaten by a bear on the way to the bathroom' letters to their parents.

Two days into her new life, we got a phone call. Or my husband did, because I was at work.

My daughter shared an incredible tale.

The girls were getting freaked out because, in the early evening, they saw a shadow of someone walking around in the empty bunkhouse where they slept. The property owners and my daughter checked it out, but there was nothing there. However, my daughter felt something was off.

The girls went to bed, and again, shadows that blocked the outdoor floodlights moved outside the windows. Humanoid shadows with no one there to create them. 

My daughter had enough.

Let me give you a little background on my daughter. She can see spirits, good or bad. Not always in detail, but she does see them. And we've dealt with demons before, so she knew what to do.

She went outside and prayed a hedge of protection as she walked around the cabin three times. The girls watched with interest, but didn't step outside. My daughter came back in and settled down. Her confidence that they were protected settled the girls a little, though it didn't stop them from casting nervous glances out the windows.

When my daughter looked out the window a few minutes later, a large black shadow seemed enraged, backed up, and charged at the cabin full force. 

The girls screamed as the shadow hit an invisible barrier, exploding in a gold-glowing flash of bright white light.

No one else on the grounds saw it, but all of the girls inside did. They said it was like lightning. Yet the skies were clear.

The shadow was gone and never returned.

I'm the proud mom of a demon fighter. You GO, girl!

Since she doesn't have a cabin for herself yet, she comes home every other weekend for some personal downtime (someone else takes over staying with the girls when she's not there). She's making her way in the great wide world, and though my nest is (almost) empty, I couldn't be happier or prouder of her. I just wish she'd stop bringing loads of dirty laundry when she visits, but I guess even demon fighters need to wash their clothes!

Updates: a New(ish) Job, a New Book, and a New Outlook

 So much has happened since I last posted, and I do apologize (again!) for not posting regularly. Honestly, there are more than a few reasons I haven't posted:

1. I didn't have much time (like I did before...NOT)

2. I didn't want to post the negative stuff, and 

3. I forgot not only my password but the new email I transferred the Blogger login info to. Oops.

But with diligence, a lot of tears, a few threats, and some dark chocolate, I finally figured it all out.

And now, a condensed version of the past year and a half.

I got a new part-time job as a rural news reporter in 2023 (okay, so more than a year and a half, but still relevant. Shush). Lots of writing, but just the facts, please! Though sometimes my boss lets me put a smidgen of humor into the plethora of articles I've written, it doesn't happen often enough. Do you know how hard it is not to make a funny blurb about a cow that got loose and knocked over several police officers? Gotta love rural news!

You'd think that would make me blog more often, but after a few sessions with a therapist, I have been told I 'unofficially' have ADHD.

That means when I should be letting the funny part of my brain off the leash, it defies me by shutting down any thoughts regarding humor. Ugh.

When I'm supposed to be serious, I want to be funny, and when I want to be funny, my brain takes a vacation. Joy and rapture abound.

Since I last posted, my husband has been running his bakery, except during the winter months. Just as we were getting to be known in the community and gearing up for spring, a new inspector came and shut us down, but not for the reasons you think. 

We were mislicensed. 

So we have to make a few renovations to be properly licensed, but since that was our major source of income, it put a damper on things — especially since it was the beginning of tourist and camping season. 

We're not mad at the inspector. We've just been misinformed about so many things between the FDA and the Department of Agriculture; the wires got crossed somewhere. It happens. It's just bad timing. Why don't these things happen in winter when we are already shut down? Blah.

We were shut down after he did a day of baking, so we had fresh pastries and bread we couldn't sell, so we either had to eat them or give them away. 

I gained three pounds.

Just kidding. Sort of. We did find hungry families to donate the bread and goodies to, after 'taste testing' to make sure they were safe to give away. Nom nom nom.

Just a few weeks ago, I had a breakthrough. The book I've been writing for over 25 years finally became a published entity, and I have a new book out! PMS is My Life — Ticklish Tales from Booties to Bunny Slippers has made its way onto Amazon and Kindle, and I'm working on an audiobook for it (once I learn how). It will also be in print at Barnes and Noble, and I'm working on getting it out into the world, one book signing at a time. 

The plan is to sell enough books to get the bakery up and running again, and to get three children's books illustrated for publication. They are already written, I just need to pay my illustrator, because he can't live on bread alone. Though he did enjoy the cookies we sent as a bribe...er, thank you.

PMS is My Life is a series of stories I've written from childhood, up to speculations about being a grandma one day. The PMS part is in the chapter titles: Post Mommy Syndrome (babyhood), Produce Munchkins (motherhood), into Perpetual Meddler Syndrome (when the kids move out and when you visit you see they're doing it all wrong), and ends with Pamper Much Syndrome (when I try to guess what kind of grandmother I'll be).

It's filled with short personal essays of true-life happenings, some funny poetry sprinkled in, and enough speculations about life — like what would happen if men took turns being pregnant — to brighten your day and your predisposed perspectives. Here's the link to the book: PMS is My Life Book

Think Erma Bombeck if she had Philly snarkiness.

Here's a gander at the cover:

One of my new fans suggested I do a syndicated column. I looked into it, and the idea excites me a great deal! Can you imagine my stories making people laugh in newspapers throughout the country? How phenomenal would that be?

Please remember to like, share, and comment! I'd love to hear from you!