Page 24 - Fire Your Personal Trainer and Kick Your Own Damn Ass

Fire Your Personal Trainer 21
And Kick Your Own Damn Ass

I said it was okay, and he sat down next to me. His friend sat down on the
opposite side. I tried to remain calm and looked straight ahead, but this
was going in the direction I thought it would take from the first moment
I saw these kids.

I don’t recall the exact exchange I had with that kid who stepped on
my foot. Maybe he asked me my name. I do recall when he slapped me
across the face for no reason and stared at me grinning, waiting to see

if I would do anything. I didn’t do a thing. Then he called down to his
friends who were watching and laughing, “look at him he’s about to cry.”

I remember him grinning at me. That grin. I had seen that grin before
on the faces of kids who were picking on their victims. I had seen it that
summer in both of the fights I’d had. Why did they always have that grin?
Some of you may think this is me being melodramatic but I promise you
I’m not.

In seventh grade I was a target. I wasn’t small for my age or especially
shy, but I was mild mannered, good in school and had a reputation for
being one of the smart kids which automatically meant I was labelled a
goody-good nerd.

All I really wanted to do was fit in but my parents, especially my mother,
had this idealized vision from the 50’s that she preserved in her mind
about how I was supposed to look and dress, and I was forced to go

along with it. I wore tortoise shell glasses, and I had a crew cut all through
grammar school in the 60’s when everyone else had long hair, and I took
constant grief. The kids had a nickname for me: the square. I was sick
of it.

I had the wrong look and kids never understood that they were giving
me crap me over something that was not my choice. I didn’t want that