When I was little, I couldn’t climb the rope in gym class. You know the one I mean… with all the evil little knots leading up to a piece of duct tape on the ceiling you were supposed to joyfully smack before you began to climb back down. It was never that I was afraid of heights (I haven’t been blessed with a self preservation instinct strong enough to make me fear heights). It wasn’t even that I wanted to give up because our P.E. teacher was a giant Dill Hole.
I never had the arm strength to pull myself up the rope. I wasn’t a heavy kid. I was one of those bean poles that you just wanted to feed cookies to. I just didn’t have the arm muscle. One year my teacher, in a desperate attempt to push even his poop headedness to a new level of cruelty, decided that if we didn’t make it to the top of the rope, we would fail gym. My eight-year-old self couldn’t stand this. I did the only thing any reasonable child would do and staged a sit-in in the cafeteria. If memory serves, I even made a sign for it in art class.
Eventually, they changed the rule, and I made my normal B in gym, the only non A I ever got in Elementary school. I wish I could say that having the pressure gone to complete the rope climb made it possible for me to achieve the absurd goal of smacking the shining silver duct tape. But it didn’t. I still hate that rope.
However, I do climb lots of things like mountains and up to zip lines. Please enjoy these photos of me zip lining in Alaska yesterday. Not to be bitter, but I think my old gym teacher can go poop his pants. Need to achieve my eye!
My end of the rope is the bottom end of the rope. The one dangling by the floor. Y’all can keep the end of the rope with the shiny piece of duct tape.