Boundlessness: Teenage Medusa Runs Like Hell

I can still remember the burn. Sixth grade field day, and my gym teacher had tapped me to run the 440 meter race. Everyone else was sprinting, shot-putting, or long jumping. Before you think that I had any running talent, let me help you understand his reasoning. This man, who tormented me weekly in gym class with tumbling, floor hockey and dodge ball, and who posted everyone's weight on his office door for all to see, he entered me in the 440 because I sucked at everything else. I wasn't a sprinter or jumper. I was a mediocre athlete who spent her time reading and writing poetry and playing Beethoven at weekly piano lessons. 

His intent was that I would train for the race. He never told me how. I was just supposed to run, like a teenaged Forrest Gump. Instead, I procrastinated. 

Field day finally arrived on a hot and muggy June day. I wore a red pair of shorts, vintage 1980, tube socks, and a red, white and blue t-shirt. My Farrah Fawcett waves rebelled in the humidity, so instead of looking like the patriotic fashion plate that I was, I looked like a Gorgon who had tangled with an American flag and lost. 

I watched my friends compete throughout the day. My not-so-secret crush (did I mention how hormone-crazed I was?) sprinted his way to victory in the shorter distances. The 440 meters was the last event of the day. Finally, I toed the line. I didn't think about how I hadn't trained, or how my socks kept falling down while my shorts were riding up. All I could think about was HIM. He was watching me. He was standing beside my mom, watching me... and then, we were off!

I ran like someone had lit my hair on fire. Arms pumped, legs kicked. Little by little, I passed every competitor, until I was neck-in-neck with one last runner. I could see the finish line. I could hear my mom yelling. I could see spots floating before my eyes, but none of that mattered, because I could see HIM silently watching. I dug deep and pushed ahead and over the finish line. 

Afterward, I dramatically flopped on the grass. My mom came over and helped me up. The boy crush followed her. My gym teacher from hell congratulated me.  But I only had eyes for the boy. I stood there with my heaving chest and crazy hair. He smiled and said, "Good race," and then walked away. I opened my mouth...and vomited. It was very dramatic. I was mortified. 

I can't remember if he saw me puke. He had already walked away when I tossed my Doritos. But what I do remember was this, it was the first time I did something that I didn't think I could do. It was the first time that I really stared down my fears of field day, gym class, boys, and failure. 

It was the first time I felt boundless.