My Survival

I survived co-ed PE (barely) ten years ago and I thought I was finally free. I thought I thought I would never have to go back there. That is what makes the story I am about to relate so much more horrifying.

About two weeks ago I received and ignored an email from a woman in my department at work, who, to the best of my understanding, is in charge of planning stuff. I am relatively new to this department so I don’t know exactly what every on in it does; actually, I am not even sure what they want me to do most of the time. So far, the main thing I do is nod and pretend to understand what is being said in meetings. But I digress…

The email said something about a meeting and it looked long. We have a lot of those so I clicked the accept button, which puts it on my calendar and causes a note to pop up about 15 minutes before I am supposed to be there. I don’t really read these meetings emails, I just go where the pop up notes tell me to go. Apparently in this case, I should have read the email.

On Thursday, my boss casually mentioned to me that we would be gone all day Friday. I asked where “gone” was exactly and she, as well as every one in hearing distance, looked at me like I had five heads. Upon the boss lady’s request I checked my calendar and sure enough, thanks to that ignored but accepted email, there was an appointment that said I was supposed to spend the half the following in some off site conference and then the other half of the day at the gym of all places.

This clarified the meaning of an earlier conversation I had had with my coworker T a few hours prior to this (look below for a long gratuitous description of T)[1]. T, in a rare show of confidence and solidarity with me, had turned to me quietly and whispered, “Don’t you think that going to the gym as a department is an inappropriate mix of work and hanging out in our PJs?” I agreed, because, well yeah, that mix would be odd!

After I put my conversation with the boss and the conversation with T together in my mind, it all started to make sense.

This event the next day caused a bit of a conflict with the semi-pubic speaking I was supposed to do for another department the next day but my boss told me not to worry because she could take care of getting me out of it.

T and I had another conversation about the compelled group sport (we didn’t know what it would be exactly) after I knew this was something that was really happening. He talked about the discomfort of being in gym clothes and how being athletic should not be a work requirement. (I should maybe take this opportunity to say T and I are in the documentation department for as software company... so no, athleticism should not be expected). I nodded again through this second conversation but felt a little elated.

I go to the gym like, a lot, and I am a pretty tough chick. Things were actually looking up for me, because this speaking thing I was getting out of was not really my idea of a good time and, when it comes to speaking even semi publicly, I would much rather pass the buck.

So, I survived the very dull off site conference and then, with T grumbling all the way, we set off for the gym. I got in to my snazzy favorite blue (faded to grey) cotton pants and headed to the basket ball court where I was smacked squarely in the face with shock and terror.

When I was in high school, I dreaded the hour of the day that required me to sport a hideous pair of red shorts and feebly attempt to appear to be trying to “participate” in some sort of team sport. And there were the games I hated the most. The big three, the ones that really shook me to my quick, were (in the order of most horrifying) baseball, basketball and volleyball.

I marched in to the gym this Friday expecting, I don’t know what... darts? A water balloon fight? A greased pig chase of some kind? But no, this was not the case.

A woman with a clipboard and a smile bopped up to me and asked, “Are you with this company?”

My eyes stared widely at coworkers who surrounded a net. I answered the bubbly lady with, “If I say I am? Are you ganna make me *gulp* play volley ball?” Her eyebrows curved inward and her head cocked to the side like my dog’s head does when I suggest she poop someplace other than my carpet. This was clearly not the answer she expected.

It didn’t matter because I was spotted immediately by the group and told which team I would be on.

Let me explain my feelings on volleyball (or any kinda of “ball” that requires me to deliberately move in the direction of an object flying toward my head).

It’s not just that I don’t like it. Imagine being asked to stand in front of a cannon that is about to be fired, and you are dressed as a chicken and told to “catch” and every one you know is watching but doesn’t understand you are in mortal danger. They are just laughing at you and your chicken suit and not understanding why you don’t stick your arms out to catch. That’s how I felt playing sports in high school—humiliated, terrified of the probable physical destruction, and completely abandoned by every one I know.

It was at this point that I decided I would rather be speaking semi publicly...in the buff if necessary, and doing the little booty dance if I must (see below for the gratuitus definition of the booty dance)[2]. What ever! Could not be worse than this.

As I walked to join my team, the memories all rushed back. I assume the feeling I had then was similar to a fellow has when entering a Siberian prison to serve his second term. These were atrocities to which I thought I would never again be subjected. But, since I am 29 years old, and almost an adult, I decided to suck it up like a grown up and play.

The first time the ball came toward me, it may as well have been on fire for as much as I just wanted to avoid it, but since it was coming right at me I had to hit it to keep it off of me. From both teams, people were suddenly shouting at me. Only I was very confused by the things they shouted. Every time I made contact of this kind with a ball in high school, they said things like, “what the hell are you doing?” “What was that?” “We told you to just stay over there” and my favorite “get off the court, you stupid girl!!!!” But on Friday they said, “Hey, good job.”

I mean I am not a complete moron, so unless the definition of “good job” is flailing your hands wildly in hopes to knock the ball off its course in the name of self preservation, I think these may have been sympathy “good jobs.”

Not long in to the game I met the face of my dear, dear T. I mouthed, “I don’t do volley ball” in desperation. Surely at least he would understand. I was met with a smile, and not one of compassion either, he was enjoying himself. The traitor!

Through out the game, I managed to stay out of the way of the ball enough to only have to touch it a few more times. This was a skill I picked up in school and I guess it’s like riding a bike. You don’t lose it.

They did make me do something called “serve” a few times. I think the rules required them to let me. I am hesitant to call what I did “serving” because the word indicates I some how gave the ball to the other team and …well the net is pretty far away. Still I managed to get my team one point, when on my third turn serving the ball went over to the other side and they didn’t hit it. I would like to brag and say that is because I had improved and was doing well, but I think it was more that they were not ready for it at all. They had seen me server before and actually, I think when I made it over the net they were so unprepared, a few of them were even sitting down.

I didn’t leave with my dignity. There is a good chance there will be some in office teasing for a while. But I am not complaining. I was not hit in the face with a fire ball either!






[1] T occupies the desk adjacent to mine and is a metro sexual in denial.

I frequently observe him browsing men’s clothing websites when he thinks no one is looking. He dresses (and claims to do so independently of his wife’s help) somewhat sharply, is consistently well coiffed, can carry on a conversation about poetry with more convincing enthusiasm than he can muster about the topic of sports, and once after a group lunch during which he adamantly denied knowing why he is so frequently put in the “metro” category, T corrected our comments about the new “white” building going up next to ours and told us that the exterior was clearly “eggshell”.

I am not sure why he won’t embrace it anyway. There is nothing wrong with it. A man should be proud of his ability to groom, manicure his hands and color coordinate.

My only gripe with T is the lack of comradeship between us that really should exist. T and I are the underlings of my new department. We do what we are told and are supposed to have no opinion what so ever. Our mutual lowly status should make us instant co-conspirators but apparently he us unaware of this or thinks he is above the natural law of the office place.

[2] You know. The booty dance! Every one who has been married for longer than six months has one. You know, you get naked to bathe or whatever and your mate is there so you do the little butt shake that is like, well I would not say sexy, but…

Booty dance! Y’all have one. Don’t lie.