Middle school P.E. was not a "happy period"

I had a dream about one of these things the other night.  And yes, it's a Kotex dispenser, just like the one that hung in the locker room in middle school.  If memory serves, in the gym locker room, it hung inside a bathroom stall.  In the pool locker room area, it was out there in all its glory.  Free to be seen by your classmates when you bellied up to the dispenser and fed in your quarter.  You've got me why it was such a big deal that no one else knew you were having your period (which had to be spoken in hushed tones, because Lord knows, it could have been contagious).  Note how institutional it looks, unmarked, nonthreatening.  You could probably stand in front of it and pretend that you weren't waiting for a tampon or pad to magically appear.  Candy, yes, I'm buying candy, so the rest of you go about your business.  I'm not having my period.  No.  I'm not!  Honest!  I thought this was a candy machine, dang it, but I guess this will come in handy the next time I have a nose bleed. 

Anyway, one might say that when you reflect on the past, a few things can happen.  One might be that you can't remember squat about the past to begin with, so nothing happens.  Some might surmise that you look back and realize, "Hey, things weren't nearly as bad as it felt when I was experiencing it."  Others might look back and think, "Yeah, it was really was not good times even in retrospect." 

The latter was represented in this dream I had where I was whisked back to middle school, so let's say seventh grade. 

After a relatively sheltered existence at my elementary school, the next year, we were all dumped on the doorstep of the middle school.  We'd been given a little taste of the misery that was P.E. class in sixth grade when we went for swimming lessons once a week.  I loathed it.  I'd beg for a note that said I had an earache or some other malady that kept me from being subjected to the torturous hour of aquatics.  And since it was the early 80s, before girls started sprouting boobs as first graders and getting their period by fourth grade thanks to growth hormones in our dairy, that couldn't be used as an excuse.  If it would have been the case, I bet I would have had a period that lasted the whole nine weeks. 

So, in this dream, a couple classmates from those days were telling me to hurry up.  We had to get out there before the swim teacher got mad.  Evidently the three of us were all sharing the sisterhood of the curse at the same time, and we needed to report for poolside calisthenics.  That was the "punishment" for being unable to participate in the water. 

"We're going to get in trouble," they said.  "He'll kill us.  He's going to drown us.  We're going to die! Hurry!"  Their pleas had me trembling, but there was something I needed to do first. 

To fully set the stage for what was complete humiliation regardless of whether I was water-friendly that day or not, one must understand that I hated this class.  The teacher scared the crap out of me, and I honestly believe he kept a score of tally marks somewhere for every kid he let think they were going to die before letting them stop treading water or throwing them a lifesaver to cling to.  He was the type of adult who'd make you beat your personal best holding your breath by dunking and holding you under the water.  (I'm inclined to believe that a sadistic nature is a prereq to be a gym teacher.)

The poolside torture of jumping jacks, running, push-ups, and other exercise didn't begin until after we'd all taken our spots in alphabetical order on a bench.  When he called your name, you said, "here," if you were prepared to join that day's chlorine-laden festivities.  If you couldn't, you had to say you had a note or that dreaded word - period.  Right in front of the boys, the other girls, God, and the swim teacher. 

I fully believe he took some pleasure in pretending he didn't hear you.  "What did you say?"  "Period (spoken barely above a whisper)."  "Speak up."  A little louder this time, "Period."  "What?"  And this time nearly screamed just to end the embarrassment and move on with life, "PERIOD!"  He'd mark his gradebook with a P for Period. 

If you've never done physical exercise in a room with a heated pool, barefooted, in a swimsuit made from the heaviest polyester blend known to man that wouldn't flatter a supermodel and rode up your crack and made your boobs itchy, on indoor/outdoor carpet over cement, with the smell of chlorine burning your nostrils and brain, you should try it.  If you're crampy, bloated, and worried your feminine hygiene product isn't going to hold back Aunt Flo, that's even better.  I don't know if the early 80s were a time where proper hydration wasn't a concern, but we were expected to ask for permission to get a a drink from the fountain.  You didn't want to do this, or you'd surely be told to run for a solid five minutes before you could walk the quarter lap of the pool.  Occasionally, if someone was looking a bit ill, he'd suggest getting some water.  That's probably because a kid passing out would take his attention away from learning the proper technique for blowing bubbles. 

It certainly was a toss up which was worse - that or actually getting into the water.  I knew how to swim.  I'd taken swimming lessons over the summer at the community pool where the lifeguards/swimming teachers spent about as much time flirting with each other as they did plucking kids on verge of drowning out of the pool.  I wasn't going to be swimteam material no matter how well this teacher attempted to groom the finest of the bunch to join him in swimming victories.  I would have been content to stay in the shallow end of the pool, which in retrospect, I don't think I could hardly touch there, either. 

I refused to dive.  I refused to try harder to help win a relay race.  It had nothing to do with the fear of water.  I'd rather enjoyed it up until this point of my life.  I simply did not trust this man to not watch me drown after making me tread water for 20 minutes. 

So, there I was in the dream.  Beginning to panic that I was going to be in trouble because I couldn't get that confounded Kotex machine to dispense something that would attend to my feminine needs.  I looked at the box and read $2.00.  I fumbled for eight quarters, dropping them on the floor, noting that they were only a quarter back in the day. 

I heard my name being called.  "Coleman."

 I turned the crank and out came a PVC gasket like you'd use to fix a sink drain. 

"Miss Coleman."  I kept feeding in my money.  With a turn of the crank, out came a firework spinner.

"Kelly Coleman."  I don't know where the quarters were coming from, but the next prize from the machine was a box of Tic-Tacs. 

I knew I had to get out of there considering this Kotex machine wasn't offering me anything that helped my current plight.  When I glanced at the machine again, I could see stacks of dollar bills.  I reached in grabbing them, totally forgetting about my friends and reporting to poolside misery.  Suddenly, I didn't care about the swim teacher's wrath, and I found myself thinking I should stop and get gas on the way home. 

I hated those days in middle school, and I couldn't wait to get out of there to go to the high school in ninth grade where there was no pool, even though that brought about new worries about initiation and being a freshman.  I wonder if being all forthcoming about menstruating was supposed to give us a healthy attitude about it - you know, like reaffirming what all those "you're becoming a woman" films in elementary school that it happens to all girls, eventually.  It did lend itself to a certain feeling of shame and embarrassment.  What I do know is that there would have been a line of parents a mile long outside the principal's office these days to complain about their little darlings having nightmares about drowning and diving boards. 

I don't know why I had this dream.  I can only suspect that it's a little like those times when I dream about tornadoes - it means I'm feeling out of control or helpless, or something.  I do know, though, looking back, it's ironic that Kotex's current slogan of, "Have a happy period," doesn't really apply to those days.