Gym Class 101

When I was a 7th grader at Woodrow Wilson Junior High School, I had

several phobias, which made my gym class an unpleasant experience. Unlike

today, it was mandatory that we participated and dress for every class. There

were no exceptions. Our class was run similar to a boot camp, filled with

more than eighty girls. We were required to purchase and wear identical blue

cotton, short jumpsuits. On the bodice, right above the pocket, our last name

and first initial had to be embroidered with white thread. White socks and

tennis shoes completed our uniforms.

After getting dressed in the basement locker room, where there was

absolutely no privacy, one by one, we ran up to the gym. We lined up like

young Army cadets, forming a large human square around the perimeter of

the room. Our very athletic teacher, Miss Whitt, was an attractive petite

lady, with short black hair, peppered with gray. While twirling her whistle,

she walked around the square, inspecting our uniforms and checking role at

the same time. It was easy to tell who was absent. We always filed into our

same placements, so if a girl was absent, there would be an open space.

After attendance was taken, we fell into formation for the predictable
calisthenics regimen. We always began with fifty jumping jacks, then went

into the arms up, bend over and touch your toes with the opposite hand

exercise. Our exercise regimen usually followed the same routine, with little

variation. Sometimes we played volleyball and basketball after the

exercises.. Sit-ups was the kicker for me. We had a partner, who held our

feet down on the red mats, and counted our progress. At the beginning of the

semester we were required to do fifty, and eventually we worked our way up

to the mandatory one hundred sit-ups. Our stomach muscles ached for days

after having to do so many. The teacher held contests, to see who could do

the most.

The activity which I dreaded more than any other, was by far, the

ropes. There were two long, thick, twisted, jute ropes hanging from our very

tall ceiling. I couldn’t say exactly how long those ropes were. My guess is,

they extended up to the equivalent of three stories high. I had a severe case

of acrophobia back then, as I still do today. My heart started to pound, and

my hands began to sweat, as my turn to climb approached. When my turn

came, with much trepidation, I ever so slowly and reluctantly, inched up the

prickly rope, one reach-pull-and-push movement at a time. I was careful to

never look down at my classmates on the floor, who were watching me from

below. Once I reached the top of the rope, I was always so relieved.
 Unfortunately, I was too eager to get my feet back on terra firma, and

invariably, slid down my coarse lifeline too quickly. Every single time, I

ended up with raw rope burns on my thighs, from clinging so tightly. They

were the size of a tennis ball, and usually took several weeks to heal.

The real trauma associated with the gym class experience happened

after class, in the dungeon-like shower room. In my mind, I likened the

experience to what life must have been like in a concentration camp. We

lined up on the stairs, which led from the gym down to the basement, then

marched down to the shower room.

Unlike in schools today, back then, taking a shower was a

requirement. To show proof that we had taken one, we handed over our wet

towels to older student gym helpers. We waited in line stark naked, as they

checked each person’s name off. The lull between handing over our towels

and walking over to where our lockers were, seemed like an eternity.

Everyone’s naked bodies were practically in full view, for all to see. This

proved to be quite intimidating and embarrassing for most of us. I had just

stepped up from wearing a training bra, and had very small breasts. On the

other hand, there were a number of girls in our class, whose breasts were the

size of cantaloupes. Theirs certainly dwarfed mine, which somewhat

resembled two fried eggs, sunny-side-up. I'm sure the well-endowed were
equally as humiliated as those of us who were flat-chested.

Many of my friends loved gym class. For me, having to undress in

front of classmates, and climb the ropes were so humiliating. Back in the

early sixties, girls were required to wear skirts or dresses to school. We were

also having to deal with the nuisance of taking off and putting back on garter

belts and hose. We didn’t have the convenience of pantyhose until a few

years later. In the locker room, I always got runs in my hose, from snagging

them on the bench or locker. I kept a bottle of clear nail polish in my purse,

to dab on the runs, keeping them from “running” any further.