I was that kid.
You know, the one who faked ankle injuries out on the kickball field. The one who somehow made it to the end of the line when it was time for my team to bat in Whiffle Ball. I failed every Presidential Fitness challenge, with the exception of the flexibility test.
Those days out on the elementary school field, with its dying scratchy grass and occasional patch of dandelions, firmly solidified my identity in my mind. I was not an athlete.
I didn't run, didn't catch, didn't throw, didn't kick. And I certainly didn't sweat.
Bookish and smart, I didn't need any of that, anyway. And my fast little metabolism worked overtime but kept me healthy and trim.
This image of myself as a non-athlete was so ingrained in my being that I bowed out of rec classes, never tried out for an inter-mural team in college, and poked fun at myself for being out of breath on those rare occasions that my roommate took me out salsa dancing.
It was a mantra- part of who I was.
I don't exercise.