When I was twelve, the words I dreaded most were birthed from the mouths of gym teachers. "Everyone line up. We're picking teams today."

Picking teams. A death sentence. An atrocity. The ultimate humiliation.

For an unpopular, shy girl with a particularly bad case of the Uglies, picking teams was much like a farmer herding all of his cattle and picking the ripest ones to be sent to slaughter; except in this case, being sent to slaughter was a good thing. The five minutes spent standing there before two pairs of Team Captain eyes gave me more than enough time to pray for mercy. Please, please, PLEASE let me retain some dignity, I would beg the good Lord above. Yet no matter how many times I promised God that I'd go to church forever if He'd spare me this one time, it always came down to me and some other equally awkward soul. The teams were set, and they'd huddle and decide between the lesser of two evils. Me, with the short curly hair and bushy eyebrows, or my male counterpart, featuring thick glasses and skinny legs? The team captains would glance at each other as if to say, "You take her this time, and I'll get her next time." And then I would trudge slowly to whichever team had the misfortune of bearing the weight of my non-athletic disposition and I'd pray that there be some sort of apocaplyptic fire drill which lasted the entire period.

If we were playing kickball, I'd stand as far back in the outfield as I could without technically being considered absent. If was my team's turn to kick, I'd hide at the end of the line and squirm when the teacher asked who had not had a turn. It's difficult to convey the absolute fear and anxiety that gripped my middle school body when it came to gym class. I was so terrified of kicking a foul ball, of tripping over my shoelaces, of missing a great catch. I feared that I would become fodder for the lunchroom, the subject of ridicule for cheerleaders and football players. Part of it stemmed from the fact that I was teased mercilessly in middle school, and part of it was that I just wasn't good at sports. I didn't even really know all the rules to kickball or basketball, and each minute spent on the baseball diamond was an eternity in hell.

Because of the voyeuristic powers of Facebook, I've kept tabs on those former team captains who wanted nothing to do with me. They probably have no idea that I now love exercise and work out nearly everyday. Some of them are still athletic, some of them are fat, some of them dropped out of college. And although it would be foolish to say that I still harbor hatred towards something that transpired ten years ago, there's a part of me that will never forget what it felt like to be picked last in gym class, even after graduating college, getting a job and landing an awesome boyfriend. I'm no longer the awkward quiet girl, but I'll always know what it was like to be one.