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Gym class was always a special kind of hell for me. The smell of sweat mixed with deodorant spray filled the air, and the squeak of sneakers on the polished floor was a painful reminder of just how uncoordinated I felt. A week we discovered the existence of L.S, I was sitting cross-legged on the mat, holding Gigi's feet as she dramatically tried to do her fifth sit-up, her face scrunched up in struggle.
"Oh my god," she groaned, gasping for breath, her arms flopping over her chest like a bird that was about to pass out. "Why do people even choose to exercise? This is torture. Straight-up, government-approved torture!"
I couldn't help but laugh. "You said you wanted to work on your core."
