Pretty Feet.

My favorite sight to see is a group of tiny gymnasts watching their coach demonstrate how to execute a proper somersault. They all stand in a line with their panties hanging out of their leotards. Most of them could care less how to do forward roll, and stand with their finger up their nose. They wish they were anywhere else but the smelly gym. Then, there on the end stands a little girl wearing her favorite crushed velvet leotard, listening to every word that comes out of the coach’s mouth. Her eyes are big, focused. Her heart is beating fast. She cannot wait to perform her forward roll for the class. There is no place on earth she would rather be.

That little girl on the end was me.

As far back as I can remember, I loved gymnastics. I somersaulted down the hallway to my bedroom, because walking was simply too easy and I couldn't waste a moment of time not practicing my flips. I cartwheeled on the soft green grass of the field while everyone else played t-ball. I pretended every line on the ground was a balance beam, and I had to walk with precise posture and keep my nose up to nail the perfect performance. I layered a long sleeve blue shirt under my red one-piece bathing suit to serve as a USA leotard.

And I watched, with big eyes, as my heroes competed in the Olympics. Only 4 years old, I stood there in the living room in front of the TV, eyes glued to the screen. I remember the 1996 Atlanta summer Olympics. I remember the Magnificent Seven. The Magnificent Seven was the name given to the 1996 United States Olympic Women's Gymnastics Team that won the first ever Gold Medal for the United States. The seven members of the team were Shannon Miller, Dominique Moceanu, Dominique Dawes, Kerri Strug, Amy Chow, Amanda Borden, and Jaycie Phelps. 

I talked about them as if I knew them on a first name basis. I watched as they flipped across the floor to music during a routine. I saw them stick each vault, then walk with a skip in their step afterward out of excitement. And I smiled as they stood on the platform, gold medals hung perfectly around their necks as the Star Spangled Banner played in honor of their victory. To me, they were the coolest kids in the whole world. And I wanted to be exactly like them.

I wanted to be like Shannon Miller the most, though. She was not only a blonde gymnast; she was an Oklahoman, like myself. That was incredible to me, and allowed me to associate with her more than the other six Olympic team members. One day, my grandpa was in McDonalds and saw a life-size cut out of Shannon Miller on one of their ads. He asked if he could have it, and loaded it up into his truck. I vividly remember him showing up to my house with it, and being thrilled. He and my dad carefully used a razorblade to cut off the part about McDonalds, because that would’ve been weird. We grabbed some tacks, and hung it in my room against the North wall. I was in awe. She looked so perfect there, with toes pointed and a pretty red leotard. I was determined to be like her.

Fast forward a few years, and I had my own leotard. I was doing my own arabesques on the balance beam. I was chalking up my hands before I spun around on the uneven bars. Hours were spent doing v-ups, and even more hours were spent doing the splits. I learned quickly that "pretty hands" and "pretty feet" were a necessity. Perform a routine without keeping my toes pointed, and I was yelled at. The smelly gym became something I knew too well.

To me, gymnastics was the only place I fit in. I couldn’t shoot a basketball to save my life. My short legs were slow when I tried to run. I was the poor soul who couldn’t hit the ball of the tee in t-ball. I was the little one they would allow to stand closer to the goal when shooting a free throw. I really wasn’t “good” at anything else. Give me a springboard, though, and I packed a mean punch on the vault.

Gymnastics was my niche.

It was where I excelled.

It was where I was happy.

Then after many years of leotards and chalky hands, I gave up my childhood dream to have a social life and pursue what I thought to be a “normal life.” At the time it was easy. My wrists were sore, and I was tired of the grueling practices. I didn't want to worry about sticking all of my landings. I packed away all of my leotards. Now, I regret quitting. I’m sad I gave up the dream I had for years, simply to do what all of the other kids were doing. I am glad that I was able to halfway recover my dream, and give my tumbling another round through cheerleading in high school. 

Did I hate it? Absolutely. No one enjoys the pain, the criticism, and lack of social life. But did I love it? A thousand times, Yes. More than anything in the whole world. I loved the lemon squeezes, the sweaty gym, the constant wedgies, and the pretty feet.

Gymnastics gave me something to be good at. It helped me to realize I could do anything I set my mind to. It made me physically and mentally stronger. Gymnastics uses every muscle in your body, and every ounce of energy. You have to be tough. You can’t let falling on your face hurt you, or get to you. What you can do is let those face-plants make you stronger. Gymnastics forced you to strive for perfection in every single way, and never give up on what you set your mind to. In reality, it made me a better person.

I still look at life with the same big eyes that the little girl in the crushed velvet leotard did. Even if my dreams are no longer gold medal oriented, I am still a dreamer. 

And, I still have an unhealthy obsession with always making sure my feet are pretty and pointed whenever I do basically anything. 

(Yes thats me, circa 1996.)