Growing Pains

Nothing takes me back to the awkwardness of middle school quite like a morning at the gym. Within seconds of stepping into a room filled with perfect coifs and even more perfect bodies, I am transformed into a clumsy, self-conscious seventh grader. While small, muscled, compact bodies glide gracefully from side-to-side, I flail my way through the work out, three feet of unwieldy legs and arms flying through the air. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I suddenly see her staring back at me, the red-rimmed glasses, mouth full of shiny metal, the short curly hair (oh, how I must have loved Annie), the long limbs that her parents kept promising her she'd grow into. I see her, never quite comfortable in her own skin, and although my body is trying desperately to keep up with the aerobics instructor, my mind is transported back twenty-years to the high school football field where I first discovered that my athletic prowess was, well, nonexistent.

Captivated by the opening night of football season and my first night as a high school cheerleader, I run with the other girls across the field to welcome the visiting team, also our school's biggest rival. Translation: packed house. With peppy grins tattooed on our faces, we proceed to wow the spectators with that classic, Two Bits. Just before the pyramid finale, we all perform a toe-touch simultaneously before moving into our formation. Pumped full of adrenaline, I jump, really more like soar, high into the air, spreading my legs perfectly parallel to the ground. And that is how they stay, all the way down, until my bottom meets the ground bouncing me a few feet backwards.

Stunned, I sit there, realizing that I have mere seconds to decide what to do. My first option is, of course, to jump up, cry, run, and move to Canada. The second and more reasonable option is to jump up and move into formation acting like nothing ever happened. Of course, it did happen. I fell, not just a stumble and catch yourself, no, it is a full-fledged, tail-bone cracking bust, so I act, but they notice. After the cheer, I giggle madly as we run across the field for introductions. Of course, for me, there is no introduction needed. How I ever made cheerleader, I'll never know, perhaps they needed someone tall to spot the girls on top of the pyramids.

Failing to learn my lesson, I decide to go out for basketball. I am tall, right? Clearly, I can play basketball. Clearly. I am marvelous, scoring point after point at practice. The problem is that I am just a little unsteady on my feet, falling and tripping, not just myself but the other girls, as well. After two weeks of practice, my coach informs me that he has neither ordered me a uniform nor shoes. Clearly, I cannot play basketball, so I move on to my next attempt at athletic greatness: the band.

For years, my parents kept saying that I would eventually become like a gazelle, growing gracefully into her limbs. In reality, I am a newborn calf awkwardly navigating my surroundings, a stubborn calf who longs to be athletic. After countless falls, even my family gives up on that dream and lovingly dubs me Gracie. I'd like to say my clumsiness does not affect me, but it does, and for years I resent my long, discomfited limbs.

I am jolted from my reverie by the voice of our instructor shouting "Sprint!" Much like in high school, I am still three inches taller than everyone else in the room, but at the moment I am running faster than they are. I catch another glimpse of myself in the mirror, it would be impossible not to since we are surrounded by them. This time I see my body and realize, with God's grace, all it has accomplished since college: carrying and giving birth to my beautiful daughter, two half-marathons, spin class three days a week, and at 32, it can still do the splits.

I finally leave class to go get my girl from the nursery. In her excited flurry, she does what her father and I call her happy dance then proceeds to run to the mat to retrieve her shoes and falls flat out on her face. I try not to laugh and see in her cute clumsiness a bit of myself. For a moment, I feel pained for her. What if, like her mom, her inability to walk steadily interferes with her athletic goals? A , all of 17 months, nonchalantly gets up, smiles, and reaches for me, and I stop worrying, because like her mommy, I know that she'll continue to get up and try again.