Hot Mess - Volume 1

Each day of P.E. in middle school started off with a half-mile run around our campus. In inclement weather, we'd complete equivalent laps around the gym - let's say ten. As the teachers couldn't monitor everyone's lap status, going the full distance was on an honor code basis. One rainy day, my overweight, sasstastic eleven year-old self decided four go-arounds were more than sufficient. I strode to the benches a good five or six minutes earlier than usual. Having watched me fail to execute even a single lay-up at JV basketball tryouts the week before, Coach Roach (not kidding - that was actually his name) surely noticed something was awry when I sat down before some of the primo pre-pubescent athletes among us. Long story short: I got caught and was forced to finish the remaining six laps in front of the entire class. 

Not so fast, Roach, I thought to myself, for he had left the divider that separated the two basketball courts down. As soon as I was out of  everyone's sight, I cut across the walkway between the two courts, slashing the distance in half - if not more.  

And then came the laughter echoing through the torture chamber. 

I had failed to notice that the space divider hung a good half a foot above the floor. The entire class saw every move of my sneaker-clad cankles along the bogus shortcut.  Well played, Chaloff.  Five more laps. In full view of the class. A freshly-laundered Abercrombie athletic shirt soiled FOR NAUGHT, DAMMIT.