I simply detested it. I had a dread of the ball coming near me and would flinch and move away instead of diving in and hitting it like you're supposed to. I never noticed the ball was headed my way until it was right on top of me, as I was already tuned out anyway. Unlike other kids who looked forward to sport as a means of escaping formal lessons, I dreaded it like most people dread root canal.
Of course I was always the last person standing there that nobody wanted when team captains had to choose people during sport at school. You couldn't really blame anyone for not wanting me on their team. I was completely inept and uninterested. The frequent jibe I heard was always: "You're supposed to hit the ball!"
On one occasion I do remember becoming annoyed when somebody yelled at me yet again during sport at school and shouting back something really forceful like "Oh, shut up!" That actually was forceful for me, as I think it was the only two words I uttered through all of high school. "Come here young lady!" the teacher announced sternly. I trudged over sullenly, preparing for reprimand. "Congratulations," he announced instead "that's the first time you've ever stood up for yourself." It was probably the last too. Oh well.
Unfortunately for me, becoming a mother of three boys hasn't lessened my antipathy for all things sport like. I still have zero interest. I haven't even made an appearance at Master 8 or 10's soccer as yet this year. The season has just started, so I expect I will eventually, at which point the following will happen:
- My eyes will glaze over in approximately ten seconds , even when it's my own child playing.
- When an occasion pops up where we have to go in opposite directions to take both boys to a soccer match at the same time at different parks, Mick will then ask me detailed questions about the game, such as which team mates were there, who scored the goals and who, in fact, won, and I will have no idea, because after glazing over after ten seconds, I was then tuned out for the entire game.
- All the other parents at the game will be overly concerned with their child's team winning and their child actually scoring a goal, screaming at them insanely throughout the match. All I will be concerned about is if there is coffee available at the kiosk, and when it will be over so that I can go home.
- When I get there I will have to rely on Master 8 or 10 to locate their team mates because I'm still not entirely sure who they are or what they look like, even near the end of the season, because I've been so tuned out.
- I can't ever really remember the actual name of the teams they play for. Is it Under 9 Dolphins or Wombats? It's some sort of an animal, I know that much. Can't remember which one though.
- Canteen duties will traumatise me. This requires me to do all of the things I am hopeless at, at once. Dealing with people face to face, remembering stuff and adding up numbers all at the same time. Too scary. Was it one sausage sandwich and two cans of coke? Or one can of coke and two sausage sandwiches? And then I will proceed to add it all up wrong, either giving the delighted person a free drink or the peeved person the incorrect change. Consequently, I think I've only done canteen duty a grand total of once.
Sadly though, the joke is on me. The truth is that because of my tendency to be a sooky la la stresshead I desperately need to exercise. I also need to burn off all the cakies and crap I eat, but I have given up on this presently as this would require completing a triathlon daily. And then I still may not have burned enough calories. But I still need those endorphins. So what do I do?
I can't do team sports. Don't even talk to me about Gyms. I have attempted to go to them in the past when I came to this conclusion. I hate them with a passion.
The queueing up for machines, the doof doof music, the overly polite, patronisingly fake staff who are only interested in getting you to sign up for a hellishly expensive membership. The posturing people giving you pitying looks at your Best & Less purchased sport wear. No thanks.
So I exercise at home. By myself. Where nobody can see what an uncoordinated klutz I am. Wearing an attractive ensemble of leggings, one of Mick's t-shirts and joggers with holes in them. Huffing, puffing, sweating, face red as a beetroot.
Which reminds me. I suppose I had better go it do it. Soon. Oh, okay, now.