OKAY this one has been suppressed pretty deep for some time now but it came back to me on Friday when I was riding my bike. We’re digging into the tweenage misery motherlode here. This is a story from SIXTH GRADE.
When I was in sixth grade, I was the smallest boy in my class. I had a huge crush on a tomboyish blonde girl who we’ll call Lauren F for the sake of anonymity.
They split girls and boys up for gym class usually. A lot of the boy activities were barbarian paincrafts like dodgeboll. I remember the wrestling unit in gym lasted a lot longer than the other units. If I recall correctly, the girls were doing something pretty abstract—like “team building.” It looked like a lot of trust falls and sitting in circles.
Lauren F was pretty vocal about it not being fair that girls could not do something fun (RIDICULOUS because I have sat in a circle and it is AWESOME). She was a pretty sassy 12-year old and wouldn’t let it go. Someone somehow planted the meme in the class that Lauren F should wrestle me. I suspect this was the evil machinations of my friend Will. The gym teacher (also my neighbor) conceded.
Ridiculously, I consented. There was a lot of pressure and I misinterpreted the situation as harmless flirtation. “Cherchez la femme.” My memory blacks out here. The next thing I remember is our bodies meeting on the sour gym mats, locked in a greco-roman tableau. (Looking back, I can’t believe how completely messed up this is).
I realized I had no idea where to put my hands on a female girl that would not end up making her pregnant (sex ed wasn’t for another few months). My survival instincts kicked in and I felt the distinct desire to throw up and then maybe cry. Instead, I called it a compromise and just kind of tried to sit there (not a great wrestling move). She flipped me over and pinned me in a matter of seconds.
Now I can think up any number of awesome excuses on how I could possibly lose a wrestling match in front of my whole class to a girl that I had a crush on—these range from the chivalrous to the sexist to the ridiculous. Maybe my arms just hurt from doing chin ups that morning—whatever! For some reason, the one I chose was:
Awesome job, sixth grade Brad.
