Quasimodo, calisthenics, and
the color purple.
When I was 16, my nemesis was a 3rd-period gym coach who smelled like too much Hai Karate and too little deodorant. I was convinced that he had it out for me.
Irritated by back-blistering sit-ups and jumping jacks on hot asphalt, I was happy to have stumbled from an airborne skateboard over the weekend. The impressive bruise on one knobby knee was my get-out-of-gym card for two glorious days.
But the bruise faded quickly and the punishing sit-ups—along with my smelly adversary—would soon put an end to my brief asphalt sabbatical. I rifled through an old box of art supplies and carefully chose a handful of oil and chalk pastels in various shades of blue, purple, and green.
It was a masterpiece. Not only had the bruise on my knee returned, but it was now a thing of beauty, and yet just grotesque enough to keep anyone from looking too closely.
I knew then while enjoying another sit-up-less 3rd period and dragging my handiwork behind me like Quasimodo schlepping a Rembrandt, I had a future in the arts.