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Gymboree

I don’t like gym. No, actually, I hate gym. No, no; wait: I DESPISE gym.
That’s better. So now that you know I hate despise gym, you might want to know why. Or you might not. To be frank, however, I don’t really care. I’m still going to tell you.
It all started when I moved from a small ‘suburb’ like area in NM to an even smaller town in MA.
Now, let me make something know to you: in NM, I had been homeschooled. Yes, you read that correctly: I never had to deal with mean teachers, homework, or nasty school lunches. But most of all, I never had to deal with GYM.
When I arrived at elementary school, though, the horror began (cue Alfred Hitchcock’s screeching Psycho violins).
Of course, as some horrible things seem to be at first, gym was… not that bad (cue shocked wide-eyed stare).
It was only when we began gymnastics that things went sour. We had to do weird contortionist moves like “The Tripod” and what not. I don’t know about you, but I’m not risking a broken back or something for some stupid pose I’ll never use.
In fact, I don’t really see any use for anything we do in gym. Wait. I take that back. Running is useful. Like if there were ever a terrorist attack, only those who could run the five-minute mile would survive, and the rest would be left behind like a herd of worms. So, running’s the exception.
Besides not having any practical application in real life, (except running) gym is dangerous. Yes, even the most benign sport can be… DEADLY (cue blood-curdling scream NOW!)
All right, all right. You caught me. I haven’t seen any casualties in gym… Yet. But just you wait. You’ll see…
Take kickball for example. It seems pretty safe, right? Just kick the ball and run.





WRONG.
Kickball is a dangerous, dangerous sport. In fact, I was almost a kickball-related casualty. Oh yeah. That’s right. I almost had my precious life taken away from me. By a kickball.
So here’s the scoop. I was in the outfield. I was standing far in the back on the leftish- center. You see, I always try to stand where I think the ball won’t go. (Why on earth would I stand where the ball might go?!)
Anyway, the ball was kicked. It soared through the air with the greatest of ease, and (almost like it had a mind of its own) came hurtling toward the center leftish back. The girl in front of me thought she had it, but alas, she did not. Instead, the ball caught me on the side of the face, like a well-placed hook. The entire side of my face turned red, like a big cherry.
Then, to compound my humiliation, everyone turns and gawks at me. An associate of mine started laughing and said: “Your face is all red now!”
Well, at least both sides of my face matched now.
My gym teacher asked if I was okay, and I smiled and said “Yeah.”
When the next runner went up, my gym teacher said “And make sure you all protect your faces, now.” Man, there’s nothing I like more than to have an example made of me…. Yeah, right.
But that’s how it goes when a ball hits you in the nose.





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