P.E. Dropout - Repeat Offender

P.E. Dropout - Repeat Offender

There are plenty of things that I am good at.

I am an excellent eater. I specialize in watching Netflix for extended periods of time without moving. I can list a wealth of Kardashian family trivia at the drop of a hat. With so many impressive strengths on my side, you’ll be relieved to know that I have quite a few weaknesses as well.

I am the anti-athlete. Throughout my college career, I have attempted five different PE classes. Only two are required to graduate, but I had to take a few shots to get a touchdown. Or whatever.

My first foray into college level PE came in the form of Golf 101. I picked it because, being the self-actualized young woman I was, I knew a successful backswing was the key to becoming CEO someday.

  • Things I did not learn: A successful backswing, how to get out of a sand trap, or why the hell rich people do this for fun.
  • Things I did learn: I look terrible in bermuda shorts.

For my second round of PE (Less “Physical Education,” more “Public Embarrassment”), I settled on Orienteering. Orienteering is possibly the least PE-ish form of PE there is. It involves a compass and a map - the point being to navigate from point to point with just cardinal directions. For me, it usually just involved getting very, very lost.

On a good day, I would trail a classmate from point to point, following at a safe distance. If they heard me behind them, I would dive behind a tree for cover. This was excellent practice for me if I should ever choose to become a private investigator.

On bad days, I would stumble through the woods cursing under my breath and thinking about which of my friends would show up to be part of the civilian search party.

There was one course that led me into the encampment of a homeless war veteran who introduced himself (I’m not kidding!) as “Lieutenant Dan” and offered me a cigarette. By the time I made it back to our starting line, the class had been over for 45 minutes and a TA for another class had been stationed to wait for me. I never went back. (If I’d sent my teacher an email saying I’d gotten lost on the way to class, he probably would have believed me.)

At the very least, I am consistent in my lack of coordination and interest in PE classes. My first soccer game (age 5) began with me running halfway down the field, bursting into tears, and bailing. In elementary school, I purposefully smacked my forehead against the metal base of a basketball hoop (...multiple times…) in hopes that the teacher would make me sit out for the day. High school gym class got much easier the day I realized that if I wedged myself between the bushes and the fence along the side of the track, the gym teachers couldn't see me. 

Moral of the story:  If I’m running, you should be, too. There is a serial murderer behind us. Or a mountain lion. Or we just missed a taco truck.


Read more about my unathletic pursuits on the Girl, Interrupting Facebook page