I was exactly two minutes into my Wii Fit workout this afternoon when some guys showed up to work on some of the yet-to-be-finished parts of the house outside. I was in the middle of some ridiculous exercise that involves getting down on all fours and lifting opposite arms and legs into the air and holding them there for awhile. It’s sort of a compromising position. And we sort of haven’t bought curtains yet. Anywhere. Peeing in this house is an experience in exhibitionism, but that’s a different story.
I have always been supremely self-conscious when it comes to partaking in any sort of physical activity, mostly because it involves a lot of flailing and falling and not a lot of prowess on my part. I don’t know how many gym classes I got through by faking illness or a sprained ankle, or by just standing at the back of the gym with a scowl on my face and my arms crossed. Those days of forced physical activity were so awful for me for one reason. I was not used to not being the best at everything. And because I made them awful, so two reasons, I guess.
I had the same attitude with sports as I did with middle school band: this was not my idea, I am not good at it because I’ve never done it before and if I don’t try I’ll have a reason for sucking. That reason will be apathy. Really sound logic, I think.
I developed this fear of—well, of what I don’t really know, participation in group activities maybe? public humiliation?—at an early age. I vividly remember my mother’s failed attempts at getting me to join the local t-ball team when I was about six years old. I remember sitting on the bleachers outside of the field during practice sobbing because the horror! of t-ball! and dirt! and my friends! and possibly sweating! Realistically, I remember not wanting to play because my town team was not the town team my regular friends were on. (I went to a small school comprised of several smaller towns and, alas, did not live in the same town as my beloved friends. Most specifically my friend Jamie.) Even though I knew these other little girls, they were not MY girls and I was not! comfortable!
Not until a few weeks ago did I learn the rest of that story. That my mom had forced me to t-ball practice at least three times, each time beginning with a car ride to the field a mere mile from our house during which I ensured her that I would just sit and not actually play and that I did not want to go. What can I say, when I wasn’t busy sobbing I was a fairly self-actualized and rational kid. After the third failed attempt, Dad told Mom that perhaps she couldn’t coerce me into playing t-ball just because she wanted me to play. That nothing in my six years of life had ever indicated an intense desire to hit a ball off a rubber T and run around in a circle in the dirt. And Mom caved and the t-ball related crying came to an end. Don’t worry, there was still much more crying about other atrocities afflicted upon me. I was a self-actualized, rational child who cried a lot. And that crying part really only ended a few years ago. Now I just tear up.
My disinterest in all things athletic carried over into my brother’s pursuits also. I spent years going to Nick’s games of all kinds, always with a book. I sat during soccer and baseball games reading about the adventures of the girls in The Babysitters’ Club, completely oblivious to the boys four years my senior on the field. This wasn’t much of a surprise to anyone, as I also took a book with me to every restaurant we went to for a good portion of my elementary and middle school years, until I realized that there was often conversation going on at these meals that could provide me with interesting information if I just looked up from the pages every once in awhile. Who knew that talking to people could be as entertaining as reading about people talking to each other! However, I think I took it up a notch when Nick was playing middle school basketball. I spent every game of Nick’s short basketball career facing the wall. I figured out a way to sit on the bottom part of the bleachers, where most people put their feet (there is surely a name for this part but I don’t know it and I’m too lazy to google) and face away from the court in order to prop my book up on the seats in front of me. I was that lazy that I couldn’t hold up my own book. To be fair, Nick wasn’t a particularly talented basketball player and so my disinterest could have been interpreted as a snub to the coach since, you know, Nick didn’t even get a jersey for the away games. But really I was just a nerdy bookworm.
I still am less than gracious when trying something for the first time. I’m of the “deride yourself before others do” school of thought when it comes to trying to learn things. It’s like this, I know I’m not good at those things I have tried, just let me believe that there is a possibility I could have untapped potential as a naturally gifted tennis champion. Or gymnast. Or putt putt golfer. And please, for the love of it all, do not try to coach me or assure me that I’ve “almost got it” or that it was a “really nice try” or “that’s okay!” I know I’m bad, I realize that I let that volleyball hit me square in the face rather than try and set it or bump it or spike it or whatever. And yes, that did hurt. But do not offer me pats on the back and words of encouragement. Because while I am not physically gifted, I have the gold medal in snideness.