No, to start off, this is not about drugs.
Alright, with that cleared up, I refer back to a lovely day in the middle of last week.
At about 6:45 in the morning I awakened my self, looking forward to my fabulous make-up of the MILE RUN.
That was sarcasm.
I hate the mile run.
Ever since my salad days, back at Hillside, its foreboding presence has resided over me, weighed me down, scammed me even.
In middle school I was absent on the days we ran it.
Needless to say, it didn't matter then, in my jeunesse...
Now things have changed-- I read a sign in front of the horrible locker room:
"25 points off your grade if mile run not completed"
Except the t's aren't crossed and the i's not dotted.
I ponder for a moment what would make someone aspire to be a gym teacher.
Then, looking at my gym teacher, I see:
She has a mullet.
There were no other options.
Anyway, 7:45 in the morning comes and I'm down at the track, where the football team grunts and tackles each other like primates during home games.
The mullet-ridden woman (that last part is indeed questionable) gets out her timer and starts.
I start running.
Rather, a fast walk.
I'm out of breath--for god's sakes I'm like a fatty or something!
First lap: the mullet monster tells me 2:47.
Good- that will give me like a 10-minute mile if I keep up at this pace.
Next time around, it's 5:30, and the time after that it's 8:30 and the girl who used to be fat but went on a fad diet and never went off is finishing the entire fucking thing!
It's ok, everyone in our grade views her as satanic.
Finally I finish, my fastest time ever!
11:30. Mullet doesn't look excessively pleased, but more concerned.
"Are you ok?" she asks me, rubbing my back slightly.
This bothers me, does this qualify as Austinism?
I tell her I'm FINE.
We walk up to the locker room and the satanic dieter is sitting there, having waited for me condescendingly because she finished SO LONG before I did.
The mullet asks if we need passes:
"You know, to settle down in the cafeteria, get some water, take an extra five or ten?"
When the hell did people stop using the word "minutes"?
This is really offensive.
I nod, though, because I would much sooner go to class five or ten later than five or ten earlier.
(That's how enjoyable our monkey of a principal has made our high school.)
I am still pleased with my speedy mile time when the mullet comes into the locker room and leaves the passes for me and Miss Newly Skinny Satan over there, who happens to be organizing the JUNIOR FORMAL, among other things (I'm not attending).
"Alright, here's your pass--feel better," she says, looking at me.
What the hell am I, like on the verge of death because I'm a little out of breath after running four laps to nowhere?
I love life.