I disliked gym class as a freshman. Maybe it had more to do with the self-righteously well-quaffed male gym teacher who probably had a strong yuppie name that I can't remember now than with the fact that is was gym. The guy roiled me. I disliked gym in general for the simple reason that there was nothing like a flexed arm hangs in front of a class coupled with failed pull ups which could make you look like the world's biggest weenie. Or, maybe it was because he loved blowing his shiny little whistle as we ran through the halls in the winter time. Whatever the reason, I didn't like attending classes.

I remember we had swimming class for a quarter. I hated swimming. We had those horribly unattractive swim suits that were fabricated circa 1958 with the hip skirt. It was an equal opportunity fashion disaster, and when coupled with the industrial strength ruiner of all hair, the rubber skull cap, it was smelly rubber bad hair day wrapped up in one brutal snap over the ears.

Swimming was such an exasperating circumstance that I told Mr Biff Shinywhistle that I had my 'monthly visitor'. Because he was so manly that even his chest hair had chest hair, this instantly embarrassed and flustered him. And, because it was such a clever ploy, it turned out I had my period 3 weeks out of the month. He couldn't keep track of all of the menses in the joint, was too not-to-be-bothered unless it had to do with the philosophy of physicality to ask questions, and I stayed swimsuit free for ¾ of the quarter.

There was no getting out of the fact that the man loved seeing the students in uniform. So much so, that he actually gave demerits for people who weren't wearing the regulation fashion he mandated. Heck, even he matched the uniforms in his own appearance. I, on the other hand, couldn't stand wearing the polyester gym shorts and the t-shirt which were requisite for the class. I usually dawdled in the locker room before venturing out into the gymnasium, partially because I didn't want to even be there.

Mr. Whistle was going to begin a unit on volleyball and I wasn't in the mood to spike anything other than his head on any particular day. I finally walked out into the hallway when he started tooting his little tooter and yelling for us to get out there. I walked our reluctantly, felt a draft, looked down, and then realized I wasn't wearing any pants.

Well how do you like them apples!

"You! Out of uniform!" Tooooooooooooooooooooooooooooot!

I backed into the locker room and grumbled, plopping down hard on the wooden bench that ran the row of the dingy grey lockers. Pulling my shorts over a pair of light blue Reeboks and knee socks, I looked in the magnetic mirror glaring back at me from the locker across the bench.

There was no way out of that one, I said to myself. You didn't like gym and now you done forgot your pants. It wasn't bad enough that you were 14 and you were having one of those days. Pimples, the inability to do a forward roll without splaying flat on your back with a loud whump and flexed arm hangs with sweaty palms because Matt was looking at you and he was as cute as any Duran Duran member, and now you're mooning half of the class with Fruit of the Loom Gloom and Doom.

Still, intended or not, I defied a law of the gym teacher, and, pants or no pants, it felt good to be a rebel, even if it was unintended. Plus, I was wearing clean underwear, which was always a bonus.

That day, I decided that had been my great and unintended act of civil disobedience, although less refined than Gandhi, more public than Thoreau, and less likely to be escorted off of the field like the streaker during the 7 th inning stretch after too many Schlitz beers.

I walked into that gymnasium, head held high, and immediately stepped in a pool of Bill Martin's sweat, pirouetted, and fell flat on my back.

Looking up at the ceiling and sighing to myself as the stars danced aound my head under those fluorescent humming lights, I decided that at moments like this, pants were definitely a plus. For the moment, at least, I was glad to have pants, even if I did realize at that moment-- by the seeming lack of school insignia-- that they were on backwards.