On my way to Hell. Anyone have a handbasket?

Yesterday, Jennifer and I were talking about our physical urges. No, not like that, dirty birdies. It went like this:

Me: I get huge urges to swim, especially in the winter.
Jen: Really? Swim?
Me: Yes. For years. Ever since I was a kid.
Jen: I never knew that about you.
Me: Yeah, I love to swim.
Jen: I get urges to ice skate. [pause] God, I don't think I've ever told anybody that before.
Me: You do? I do too!

Jennifer's visions of ice skating run more along the competitive track: Wide-open rink, wind in her face, and I got the impression that a sparkly Vera Wang skating dress and shower of dethorned roses were involved. My own skating fantasies aren't solitary ones — I'm never the only one on the ice, though there are never more than 10 people skating around me. (Read into all of this what you will.) I'm usually wearing a sweater or a coat, and definitely a scarf and gloves. And I am always jumping. I've mulled over this scenario so many times that there have been moments when I actually have to stop and think if I really know how to jump, because I'm convinced I can. I can actually feel my body propelling itself off the ground.

Toe pick.

"Can you just picture it?" Jen said. "Can you picture me in the Olympics?"

I laughed.

"Now every time you think of skating, you're going to picture me in the Olympics," she said.

"And what a startling visual it is," I said.

We stopped and laughed for a second.

"I'm always skinny, too," she said.

"You know," I said, "I can see you maybe in the Special Olympics."

We laughed again, and then I thought about it for a minute and said, "Except that those kids in the Special Olympics could kick my ass. They're way more athletic than I am."

"And they're always happy," Jen said. "I'm never that happy when I'm doing anything physical."

"We're going to Hell," I said.

"Hey, I didn't mean it as an insult to them," Jen said. "It's an insult to me. I can't do any of that."

We laughed again, this time uncomfortably.

"Don't they all get medals?" Jen asked. "Doesn't everyone in the Special Olympics get a medal?"

"I don't know."

"I'd be the only person in the Special Olympics to not get a medal."

"Oy, I'm so proud. That's how I'll introduce you in the future. 'This is my sister Jen, the only person to never medal at the Special Olympics.' "

See, here's the thing: I do not come from a family of athletes. Our idea of physical activity was to ride our bikes one time around the block before we were allowed to have dinner.

My first memories of physical activity date back to roughly age 3, when I took a ballet/jazz/"modern dance" hybrid class at The Borgo Sisters. My teacher's name was Virginia, and I'd giggle every time someone said it because it sounded like "vagina." Even when I was 3, I was 12. I learned how to cartwheel, and that was pretty much all I could do physically until I was 13. My father always said I was going to cartwheel down the aisle at my wedding, but I don't think he foresaw the variety of supportive garments strapped to my person under my dress. I could barely breathe at my wedding, much less flip myself upside-down. I did, however, master the art of the one-handed cartwheel, which could have easily been done in the strapless dress if you took away the scaffolding underneath it. Either way, not a pretty sight at all.

After Borgo sisters, I took tap. (Yes, I was one of those.) During dress rehearsal for one of my first tap recitals, my costume — a toy soldier ensemble — started falling apart and I had to dance 90 percent of the routine with this silver belt dangling behind me. I took tap for 13 years, and I don't recall ever being put in the front line for the recital performance, even though I was always short. (By the way, I can still do the first 45 seconds of my dance to "Little Shop of Horrors." Awwwww yeaaaaaah, I am awesome. Shoo-bop.)

Around age 8 or so, I took soccer at the Southfield Civic Center. Leslie Finsilver's dad was our coach, and I always felt like I was the only one who didn't know what she was doing. During one practice, Mr. Finsilver called us into a group, and I completely zoned out on the calling-play-by-play-let's-do-something-new plan. All of a sudden, all of the girls ran to the middle of the field and started kicking the crap out of the ball, all at once. I had just been playing goal and had no idea what they were doing, so I went back to the net and waited for someone to kick the ball loose and try to score on me. (Dirty!) Mr. Finsilver looked over at me like the fish that I was and told me to go over and play with the other girls. I truly had no idea that the kicking cluster of girls was an actual plan, and I didn't see how it could be fun as there was no possible way a ball could go anywhere if 10 girls were kicking it ferociously from all sides. I don't remember anything else from soccer.

In high school, I had to run the mile-and-a-half twice because I didn't do it in the regulated time the first try. The second time, the gym teacher told me I'd made it, but I'm still convinced that I only completed five laps instead of six and either he spaced out or he took pity on me, because I walked about 75 percent of it. I don't know if I should actually put this online because I have an unreasonable fear that Mr. Stratton will read it and order me to come back to Michigan and do the whole damn thing over again. I have a treadmill in my apartment for the express purpose of preparing for such an event.

I was one of those kids who was scarred by gym class, which means, by the power of the transitive property and the rules of law, I was AMAZING at dodgeball. Nobody could beat me. I was the last one standing, always. But I sucked at tennis, I was a pathetic runner, the only goal I ever scored in floor hockey was against my sister of all people, I can't throw, I can't hit a ball, Chris Dudley would have a 100% free-throw percentage if I were his only opponent, I always thought I was a decent swimmer until I got to high school and the gym teacher told me my form was all wrong and stuck me in the beginner's group, and even today I believe that I am not in possession of endorphins and am in virtual hell every time I work out, which I try to do semi-regularly. So when I said that the kids in the Special Olympics could kick my ass, I meant every word of it. Because those kids are natually great athletes, with or without their disabilities. But it took me roughly 8 to 10 seconds to run the 50-yard dash when Doug Miller could do it in, like, 4. Doug Miller was the fastest runner ever.

Here is another example:

When I worked at an ad agency in Detroit after graduating college, my very persuasive and delusional friends convinced me to join their intermural softball team. Not surprisingly, I did not excel, but it was fun because I accepted that I sucked. During one game, however, I managed to hit the ball and make it to first base. I felt unstoppable. The guy batting after me walloped the thing and I eventually crossed home plate. It was divine. I scored a point! I was 23 years old and I scored a point! Yay! My friend Joska hugged me and said, "Do that again! If you can do that again every time, it's perfect!"

"Do what again?" I asked.

"Bunt," he said, matter-of-factly, puzzled that I didn't know what he meant.

"I didn't bunt."

Apparently, I was so thrilled that I made contact with the ball that I just dropped the bat and ran, neglecting any follow-through. The ball dropped with a thud directly in front of home plate.

I do love to swim. I don't mind treadmilling. I love to ice skate. I do have rhythm. But I don't imagine I'll be winning any medals and I'll always have to run the mile twice. That's fine. I'll wipe the floor with all of you in dodgeball.