PART TWO: In time, I became aware that many other bewildered looking people were canvassing these buildings with me. It turned out we were all hunting for Rump Begone, and so we hunted together. Ten minutes after the class period started, we found it. Gigantic Gym Room 500 was the school’s code for classes outside of Gigantic Gym. Our coach had not wanted to take attendance outside in the cold, so she plopped down in a dark, unused hallway at the back of one of these buildings and waited for us to find her. Gay Panda, being a stickler for punctuality, was not amused.
The coach was not a bad sort, just someone who knows to the very center of her being that it is she the sun and stars and planets orbit. Since she knew where she was, ensconced in an unlit hallway at the back of a building most of us had never set foot inside, naturally we would gravitate to her. And since we did (in time) our complaints were thus invalidated. And so the semester kicked off with a bang, a teacher with a second head between her boobs, a teacher who spoke mournfully of being the last standard bearer of a dying art, and a teacher who was the center of the universe.
In the last case, it was not Coach Universe that bothered me most about the class. Nor was it even the exercise, although I loathed that thoroughly and completely. It was her two most enthusiastic students. The coach’s gravitational pull had exerted a particularly strong influence on this pair, moving them in a set of three throughout our sweat sessions on the field. One was tall and lovely and unnerving, one of those people who is both drawing you under a spell and setting off your alarm bells at the same instant. She was loud, dear Valhalla, she was loud. There was no quiet setting on this young woman, who exploded to our class period and exploded out of it and exploded all through it. Every command from Coach Universe as to our next exercise was met by a hearty, “WOOOOO!!! LET’S GO!!! WOOOOO!!!” And she dove into action, squatting and stretching and jumping with ear-splitting gusto.
It was echoed by her noisy sidekick, a shorter and squatter young woman in her late teens. “WOOOO!!! YEAH!!! WOOOOOO!!!” They were ever partners through the period, comparing their biceps and smacking each other's bottoms, creating a ninety-minute feedback loop of WOOOO WOOOO WOOOOO and shouting merry encouragement to everyone else in the class. I dreaded the day they would add my name to the repertoire. It did not matter to these two that nobody else ever joined in, nor did anyone respond to being included in the cheerobics. Weeks of classes passed in their meltdowns of happiness. Squats? Did Coach Universe say squats? WOOOO!!! I LOVE SQUATS!!! WOOOO!!! C’MON, MITCH!!! PULL IN YOUR BUTT!!! C’MON DARCY!!! TIGHTEN THOSE THIGHS!!! WOOOO!!! FEEL THE BURN!!! ARE YOU FEELING IT, GAY PANDA??? I BET YOU EAT SQUATS FOR BREAKFAST!!! GO, GAY PANDA!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Gay Panda hated these two with every fiber of the panda being.