In elementary school in the late 70s and early 80s, we were required to climb the rope that was hanging from the rafters in the gym.
Rope-climbing day was my own particular nightmare.
Some students could fly up to the top. I, however, couldn’t make it five inches off of the ground.
I remember walking into the gym and seeing that bastardly rope trailing out of the sky like a giant, evil, hand-cutting snake.
I remember wishing I would’ve known so I could have stayed home that day.
I remember hating the gym teacher who was constantly swinging their whistle around and around. Swish, swish.
I remember praying for a fire drill, a tornado drill, or even an earthquake.
I remember pretending to listen to the vague directions from the wind-pants teacher.
I remember waiting in the line while each and every kid attempted the rope nightmare.
I remember perspiring so much that my hands felt clammy, much like rubber cement.
I remember staring up to the top wondering what this proved to the world.
I remember getting on the monster rope and not moving up an inch.
And, I remember walking away from the horrible rope with my head held down.
Sadly, this was how one was judged. Gym class was it’s own sort of hell on Earth. And, quite possibly, a hideous, horrible rite of passage.
Recently, I asked my now fourth-grader what his favorite class was this year.
His answer? Gym class.
I do so hope he is better at rope-climbing than I was.