Truth be told, I am taking a gym class this quarter. Now, as I remembered today after being hit square in the face by springy blue racquetball, I hated gym class all through grade school. In elementary school, I wore dresses to get out of it. I even go a D in gym class in elementary school once. I was picked last for all of the teams. At first it was because I was the fat kid. Then I was just the unathletic kid.
In college, I reclaimed gym class through running and triathalon training classes. Individual sports I could handle. As long as it didn't require coordinating a stick or similar object striking a round object, I seemed to be okay.
Now fast forward to graduate school. After doing Yoga and Karate (in which I discovered I was a lover, not a fighter), I decided to try racquetball. My dad has been a big proponent for all of my life. Both Kristen and April play with their husbands. I decided to give it a try.
After a couple of classes, I realized that not only was I the only girl in the class, but the only true beginner. My class consists of young men who have been playing for years, but want to know the rules and/or how to beat that one friend of theirs who's really, really good.
After my class two weeks ago, I decided that it would be more enjoyable and less work for me to just lie down in the middle of the court and let my partner impale those little blue balls at my cowering body. I haven't yet mastered the forehand and my instructor was teaching strategies to annhilate your worst opponents. For thirty minutes, I could not return a psych major's trick serve. At first he was kind, then patronizing, and then I wanted to start aiming for him, not the glass walls of the court.
Today was a little better. My instructor met with me before class to catch me up on what I missed during last week's absence. He would go through a shot with me and then stand back to watch (amazedly at times) how I managed to do everything except the desired shot attempt after attempt after attempt. I couldn't do shot #1 until I was supposed to be doing shot #3. We volleyed for awhile. Somehow I was doing a great 'trick' shot. At first he was impressed but quickly he caught on. "Are you trying to hit the ceiling?" he asked suspiciously. "Maybe....am I supposed to be?" I replied coyly. His shoulders slumped a bit, "I guess I should just be happy that it's a good result, whatever your process is."
As class progressed, I had to swallow the impulse to run up to him crying "I really am good at some things. I can direct a play. I have run marathons, done triathalons. I can organize material like nobody's business. I don't suck at everything as much as I suck at racquetball! Really, this is an anamoly!" Whenever I felt his presence watching me from the other side of cruel, glass walls, I found myself swinging the racquet with gusto only to completely miss the ball, tripping over those pesky dividing lines, hitting the ball straight up and then having to run away to avoid getting hit. I think his pedagogy died a little with each guffaw that I made.
A group of guys were watching at one point, probably trying to get an idea of the mysterious older woman in class. I did nothing to aid the feminist movement today.
The class has made me realize that it is rare to be good at everything, or even multiple things. So when you find that one thing that you're really good at, you need to stick with it. There's nothing more beautiful than watching a person perform the role that they were destined to play. Just as, there's nothing more painful than watching someone butcher your act of beauty. Well, I hope that with the pain, there is also a sense of endearment; there has to be some beauty in the trials and tribulations of a true beginner.
