I’ve been thinking about how we’re basically taught in school to hate exercise and sports. And by we, of course, I mean the kids who are already inclined to hate them. I was not fat until I hit middle school, when puberty, depression, and loss of my mom hit me. I loved square dancing in elementary school, and playing with the parachute, and Mr. Slautterback (sp?) who taught gym in the school year and sold sno-cones at fun events I loved to be at all summer. I loved swinging as high as I could at recess, spinning the merry-go-round fast for the little kids, climbing on the monkey bars (for the record, I did not fall off. I was pushed. And landed on my head. Because of course I did.)
But when I got to middle school–whoo boy. The locker rooms. The enforced “you will run.” The coed classes at an age most boys should not be allowed out of their cages. The teachers who felt it was probably good for me to get that teasing, maybe I’d learn to be healthier (wtf?)
Apparently some places do different classes, so you can find what you like (hopefully) and do that. Four years of yoga? Would have set me up quite well. I love yoga. If I’d gotten into it then… But no. At my school we did it all, every year. Start school with the fitness test (omg, that fucking ROPE, amiright?) and then roll through all the sports, no it doesn’t matter if you hate running, you’ll learn to hand off a baton in a relay, knowing that every one of your teammates hates you. Floor hockey and kickball and basketball and whatever mutant sport the teacher can come up with that’s different from yesterday but still the same damn thing where you suck and no one wants you on their team.
There was one PE class I enjoyed, in that last six years. Somehow or other, in my sophomore year this lucky girl landed in a class where nearly all the boys were from the varsity basketball team. And I had a crush on the captain. Who was an absolute rarity in my experience, a teenage boy who was kind.
Unsurprisingly, those boys played a lot of basketball. They would get to class ASAP and play before the teacher was ready to start class, and they would play for the few minutes between the end of class and the bell to change classes. They played in down moments in class, and pushed the teacher to declare basketball on days other plans didn’t work out.
I hated sports, all sports. I was short, fat, and I had no coordination. But I had a crush on the captain, and so I decided to join them. And they welcomed me. My crush taught me to shoot a basket. They gave me the ball frequently, and gave me tips on keeping it. And thus, properly motivated, I played basketball for at least ten minutes, every school day, for a semester. Willingly. Happily. Having a great time. (Except for when I twisted my ankle, going up on one foot to shoot a basket like a dumb short uncoordinated person, and then my crush and the point guard carried me into the locker room so it was a different kind of great.)
Anywhoo. What’s the point of all this? The point is, we should help kids find the exercise they enjoy and then let them do it. I still enjoy basketball, though I suck even more. If I’d been able to go forward playing basketball, instead of everything else that I still hated (ever get a kickball to the face while wearing glasses? It hurts like fvck and it happened Every. Year.)
Or if I’d had yoga as an option. Well, I would have missed out on basketball with my crush, but I might have learned–a teacher might have noticed and told me!–that I have a bad habit of holding my breath when I exercise, and that might be why I often feel like I’m gonna pass out if I do it for one moment longer.
I am fifty freaking years old, and I noticed THIS WEEK that I am holding my breath when I don’t have a yoga teacher telling me when to breathe. Gee, might that have anything to do with some of my issues?
There’s more to it, of course. Isn’t there always? But what if, thirty-five years ago, someone had gone “Hey, keep breathing.” Might it have made things go better, so I didn’t hate that stuff so much all those years?
Seems like probably.