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<blockquote style="position: relative; padding-left: 55px;"><section><a href="https://masto.ai/users/stavvers/statuses/112738715039134507">Another Angry Woman (stavvers@masto.ai)'s status on Tuesday, 23-Jul-2024 19:31:31 JST</a><a href="https://masto.ai/@stavvers" title="stavvers@masto.ai"><img src="https://gnusocial.jp/avatar/41495-48-20221127202416.webp" width="48" height="48" alt="Another Angry Woman" style="position: absolute; left: 0; top: 0;">Another Angry Woman</a><div><a href="https://masto.ai/@stavvers/112723794493834607" rel="in-reply-to">in reply to</a></div></section><article><p>school gymnastics: a tragicomedy</p></article><footer><a rel="bookmark" href="https://gnusocial.jp/conversation/2676979#notice-6718338">In conversation</a><time datetime="2024-07-23T19:31:31+09:00" title="Tuesday, 23-Jul-2024 19:31:31 JST">about 4 months ago</time> <span>from <span><a href="https://masto.ai/@stavvers/112738715039134507" rel="external" title="Sent from masto.ai via ActivityPub">masto.ai</a></span></span><a href="https://masto.ai/@stavvers/112738715039134507">permalink</a><h4>Attachments</h4><ol><li><label><a rel="external" href="https://gnusocial.jp/attachment/2944934">School Gymnastics: A Tragicomedy
So one day when we were in third grade, our P.E. teacher divided us into girls and boys. (I don’t remember what the boys had to do. Wrestling? Tackle football? I don’t know, probably not at age nine, but that’s not the point. Gladiatorial combat? I still don’t really understand kids’ sports.)What matters for this story is that all the girls had to do gymnastics. Now I was always terrible at any form of school athletics. I am intensely, almost impressively uncoordinated. This doesn’t affect my life much at 36, but it was often a miserable way to be a kid. The only playground game I liked was playing pretend, because when you are playing pretend, you don’t have a bunch of people ostensibly on your side screaming in your ear, “Pretend faster! Pretend over there! Pretend with greater accuracy!”The point is, at the end of the unit, we were told to divide ourselves into little teams and choreograph a group gymnastics routine. My group, faced with my long list of limitations decide my role will be to just forwards-somersault around the rest of the group as they do their moves. (This is itself kind of embarrassing but trust me, it is but the appetizer.) My friend Ashley has the Lion King soundtrack and we all agree that it is a great choice. The movie has only come out a couple of years earlier, and it of course features some funny, peppy options. 'Hakuna Matata'? 'I Just Can't Wait to Be King'? It's all coming together.</a></label><br><a href="https://s3.masto.ai/media_attachments/files/112/738/699/668/591/495/original/6e346573285f8ed6.png" rel="external">https://s3.masto.ai/media_attachments/files/112/738/699/668/591/495/original/6e346573285f8ed6.png</a></li><li><label><a rel="external" href="https://gnusocial.jp/attachment/2944935">Carried on a wave of youthful enthusiasm, none of us even think to double-check which track Ashley has picked. Foreshadowing!So the day of the performance comes. Another group goes right before us. They had picked “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls, which was a huge hit at the time. I mean, it still is because it’s a classic, but then it was big and new. They step onto the mat and immediately begin to do choreographed dance moves, which they have worked into their routine. We had not thought of this. Oops. Dance moves, of course! So they incorporate the necessary gymnastics, it goes over really well, the energy is high, and now it’s my group’s turn.I take my place at the edge of the mat, the mat we are required to stay on for the length of the piece. Ashley cues up the track she’d chosen. A song starts up. Instantly, I recognize it from the movie. It is the very slow instrumental music that plays when Simba realizes his dad is dead.Friends, when I say “sad” I mean it, in every possible sense of the word. Picture a nine year old with the gravest possible affect, determinedly doing somersaults to the slowest, most serious music she can imagine, in a careful ring around her friends who have actually learned any gymnastics whatsoever. Okay, now as the music starts to pick up and get more hopeful, imagine she gets real dizzy and in front of everyone, she rolls all the way directly off the mat, careening dangerously towards the assembled students.</a></label><br><a href="https://s3.masto.ai/media_attachments/files/112/738/709/291/058/681/original/614ff42480464c99.png" rel="external">https://s3.masto.ai/media_attachments/files/112/738/709/291/058/681/original/614ff42480464c99.png</a></li><li><label><a rel="external" href="https://gnusocial.jp/attachment/2944936">Somehow, I roll myself back onto the mat, we survive what feels like hours of humiliation, we stagger away, and I blessedly avoid adding “puking my guts out in front of all of my peers” to my very short list of gymnastics tricks.Later, I asked Ashley what in the world possessed her to choose that song.“It didn’t have any words,” she said.(There was absolutely no rule against using songs that had lyrics.)Anyway, that’s why being an adult is better than being a kid.I may have to do laundry and make my own dinner and wrestle with more complex existential angst, but you know what I haven’t been asked to do in like 26 years? Somersault for three minutes straight to the musical shorthand for “this cartoon lion cub has no choice but to process the weight of unimaginable grief for his dead dad.” And you know what? If I live another 50 years, I can be pretty confident nobody will ask me to do it then, either.</a></label><br><a href="https://s3.masto.ai/media_attachments/files/112/738/713/658/799/944/original/c79ec2242734b7ed.png" rel="external">https://s3.masto.ai/media_attachments/files/112/738/713/658/799/944/original/c79ec2242734b7ed.png</a></li></ol></footer></blockquote>

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Another Angry Woman (stavvers@masto.ai)'s status on Tuesday, 23-Jul-2024 19:31:31 JST Another Angry Woman
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