How to Survive Gym Class

Ten Rules to Survive Gym Class as a Freak, Loner, or Outsider.

1. Playing with the minds of others is the only way to keep your own sanity. You must accept this, the sooner, the better.
2. Find a buddy. You won't get out alive by yourself. They'll help keep you sane.
3. Gym teachers have no passion nor mind-capacity for any creativity beyond pinny colors. Their methods are predictable and methodical. Learn this. Being split into teams generally consists of grouping shirt colors or counting off by threes.
4. Create hand signals. If, by chance, you and your buddy (refer to Rule 2) happen to end up separate teams, these can be essential. Keep these big and simple, so they can be understood from across the room. Remember the basics, for instance "Heads up!" "I'm proud of you!" "He's showing off again." and "I hate this sport!"
5. Chose one sport to be awkwardly competitive about.
6. Giant foam q-tips, while generally useless and unwieldy, are always good to have on hand to challenge duels with.
7. Learn to growl and hiss when others come near you.
8. Insanity is the most intimidating card you have to play. (Refer to Rule 1) Trying to distract an opponent? Cock your head to the side, laugh menacingly, and do NOT break eye contact.
9. Fake interest. If, by some chance, the ball/frisbee/shuttlecock/anything gets near you, don't panic. Instead, try saying something along the lines of, "Oh look! Here it comes, oh, oh dear. There it goes. Bummer. Missed it. Maybe next time."
10. Either downplay or overreact to EVERYTHING. Get hit? You have two options. Shrug it off, or fall screaming to the ground.

In the Mirror

The sweet pink of the tights swallows any shade of skin, painted on comically.
The pure black destroys any previous idea of shape,
creating for itself new curves and dynamics.
Locks of curly hair have been pulled back, tied tightly into a sleek knot, and plastered in sprays and glues.
A new face has been painted on, paler, with dangerous angles.
The pink slippers are tied, lacing their way up the legs like snakes,
twisting in their concentric circles.

I have no idea who this girl is,
or what business entreats her to stand inside the mirror.
But she cannot possibly be me.
She holds an air of grace I do not possess.
Reflections tempt with the dangerous option to pretend to be anything but who we are, yet she seems so familiar.
She cannot possibly be me. I am short, I am childish, I am clumsy.
She is graceful, powerful, and her eyes hold a dangerous fire.
She glares at me, and I lean closer to stare back. I can see her foot slip before I feel it.
Her form shatters, and she crashes to the ground. The pain shoots up from my legs, crumpled beneath me. Clumsy now, disheveled on the floor. And there I am.

To Those Who Give Second Chances

To those who give second chances,

Do you hate yourselves as much as I hate myself right now? Do you beat yourselves up and bite your lips to keep from crying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I write this in realization that I'm one of you. That I give second chances. That I'm moronic for doing so.
People do not change. They may promise to, and plead forgiveness, but they do not change. It is impossible to change who you are. Our essences, our beings, are unalterable. And some people hurt others, and will continue to do so, no matter how many chances they are given.

Perhaps it feels worse, to be hurt the second time, subjected to the preceding pain all over again, all whilst knowing that it's our own fault, for trusting someone so hurtful again. After all, insanity is said to be doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

But you, dear reader, you are not insane, nor stupid, nor to blame for giving second chances. No, dear reader. You are brave. You are marvelously brave. Trusting and being hurt is part of being human. We must accept those who deserve no chances at all, cherish the lessons they can teach you. Without trust, dear reader, you have nothing. It's the foundation for all interaction.
Thousands of people will go through life without trusting. Without loving. They haven't lived, they're scared to.
Trust, love, it's a marvelous and magical thing. You're lucky, reader, for being able to give second chances. Do not hate yourself. Do not regret. There may only be a handful of people you'll ever be able to trust completely who deserve it, love them for it, but there are many people who you owe your trust to for no reason other than to learn something.

Trust me.

Clean

Every week, she's there. In the Costco Foodcourt, she's lost in a flurry of people, pushing, shoving, grimy and methodical. Every week, it's the same routine, the same order. She's beautiful, short, heavy set. Yet, I've never heard her talk. She hides behind the register and employee vest, which boasts a cheerfullness she doesn't posess. Her eyes are heavily made up in blacks and blues, shying away from attention, but what drew mine were her lips. Perfectly colored in a deep maroon, which by the end of the day, worn and chewed on, faded to nothing more than an outline. There is a sadness lingering in her eyes that I could not place, both amplified and hidden by her careful eyeliner.

This week was different. This week, I couldn't find her, when I suddenly realized she was directly in front of me. With no make-up at all. Her face seemed rosier, her eyes, bigger and brighter, and her lips, so pale and naked, smiled. She spoke. Softly, in a gentle, unplacable accent. She was smiling, and her eyes, previously so full of sadness, seemed to be lit up.

I do not know what prompted her to wash off her sadness, but perhaps, I must do the same. I haven't blogged in a time, perhaps because I didn't want to think about the gathering darkness in the corners of my mind. But with this, I purge OrganizedChaos, and I smile too, gratefully welcoming back the light.