project.chameleon

Uhm. Pushups I like not so much.

Lying on the floor, my forehead pressed rather happily against the cold tile, I recalled my sophomore year in high school, the first year I was actually able to participate in P.E. all year without any ridiculous surgeries forcing me to bring yet another note to my instructor. So this year, finally, I could fit in, play hard, and mope in the locker room with everyone else. Yeah, no wonder physical activity and I don't get along very well.

This was also the year I learned humility. It was during out fitness test, I suppose the one that we did every six weeks or so. The fitness test I had never before participated in, due to the sad fact that I was not allowed to do anything that might make me strain my face. Pretty pitiful, hm? Try explaining that one to other adolescents, and the stereotypical phys ed teacher.

But when you're going through cyclic reconstructive surgeries back to back, you tend to listen to your surgeon and hope to God that it will just all end soon. Surgery, heal, surgery, heal, surgery, heal. It was a mostly frustrating process, especially due to the fact that I never seemed to look very different after any given surgery. I think I spent the majority of my teenage years with bandages on my face or my head or some part of my body. Sometimes I wonder what I would look like if none of that had ever happened. Sometimes I wish I still had my father's wide-bridged nose, and sometimes I am ever-so-thankful for the Barbie nose my doctor thought I needed. Anyway, I've veered completely offtrack.

Sophomore physical education. Fitness test. Pull-ups. Remeber that metal bar, just out of hands reach? Sometimes it was free standing, sometimes it was a strange towel rack looking monstrosity coming out of a wall. Either way, it was a bar you'd rather not pay much attention to. But you had to, because of chin-ups. Guys did pull-ups, and girls had to somehow hoist themself up to this bar, hold their chin over it for a certain amount of time that some sicko decided upon, and then fall miserably back downto earth, where we all belong in the first place.

Coach Cole called my name and rather hesitantly I walked up to the bar (incidentally, I have no problems approaching bars these days. Ha.) and attempted to pull myself up, touching my chin just over the bar.

At some point, my arms gave out, and my flailing legs gave up and I planted my feet firmly on the ground, turned to the coach and rolling my eyes as far back into my head as I possibly could, shook my head at him.

He never asked me to do another chin up again and I never felt sorry for myself for being left out of P.E. again.