my shot at olympic gold

julie warshaw

I watch these limber, stunted, teenage girls fly between the uneven bars and I can’t help but remember my own childhood experiences with gymnastics. I got to try a tumbling class when I was tiny and refused to do backwards rolls. By the time I was eight, my memory of tumbling had been blurred from watching the summer Olympics. I envisioned myself gracefully pirouetting across the balance beam and sticking all kinds of landings. This is why, when it came time to pick activities for sleep-away camp that summer, I excitedly signed up for gymnastics. As I hung from the higher of the uneven bars that June, feet dangling alarmingly far from the floor, refusing to open my eyes, I realized something. I hate gymnastics.

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