And the winner of the Wii + Wii Fit is...

I don't know yet!  I am still reading entries!  They are all so cringe-worthy it's hard to choose! I truly feel sorry for all who entered. (Hee!)

Keep checking back.  I will post winner's name soon!

And we have a winner!!!!!!

First, let me say that I have never laughed so hard while reading blog posts. For every one of you that farted during gym class or went to gym class with no shorts on (see Ellen's comment) or thought they had gotten the better of a Nordic-Track or treadmill or had toilet paper fall out of your previously enhanced cleavage in front of jocks or Sweated to the Oldies, or worse to Barbie or leaked breastmilk all over your step aerobics studio or been whacked in the face with elasticized excercise equipment or crushed a beloved pet while doing yoga, I truly felt your pain and embarrassment...and I laughed.

There were plenty of excellent stories to choose from, but I was really going for really embarrassing. Not just "thank-god-that-never-happened-to-me embarrassing," but reallyreallyreally cringe-worthy. The kind of embarrassing situation that you could imagine yourself being in. The kind of embarrassing situation that sticks with you AS IF you could imagine yourself doing it because you came close to being there yourself.

As I was reading posts, I asked myself: could I feel you turning beet red? Could the bottom drop out of my stomach in abject horror along with yours? Could I experience your shame as if I were there? As if it were me? That's the kind of burn I was looking for, and lo, I believe we have found it.

But first, the runners up. They all get some sorta prize because you don't cross lines like these without getting SOMETHING in return. Not sure what that is yet, but I will make it good.:

For the third runner up, we have a woman who puts the BARE ASS in embarrassed.

For the second runners up (tie), male readers may want to look away. Female readers, you may want to re-evaluate your sanitary supplies.

Should our winner not be able to fulfill her Wii Fit duties, Kat will gladly take over. After you read her going hiking on a first date story from hell, please give her your love... and all your wine and chocolates.

And now, the moment we've all been waiting for...

Cue flowers and music...

Congratulations, Lorraine (who doesn't have a blog but should) on her story of athletic mortification! I picked Lorraine because I was with her story every step (heh) of the way. I could have been her and something about her ordeal spoke to me in that place where we tuck our unrequited tales of junior high love plus our hatred of P.E. I almost didn't graduate from high school because I cut so many PE classes (hi MOM!) I spent a couple of afternoons in the spring of my senior year running laps around the track to make up for it. Plus, I was the lame senior that had to take a semester of PE, but I actually was delighted since by then my high school offered aerobics (hello, 1987!) as a PE choice and hired a real instructor in all her hi-top Reebok scrunchie sock glory who played lots of Teena Marie and Dead or Alive.

So because Lorraine's story appealed to my inner-17-year-old, she wins. Best to you, Lorraine!...and screw you "Mark Barnes!"

A Moment of Athletic Mortification:  My Story
(sorry, I don't have a blog)

I will now transport you back to the year 1982 - the year I was in grade 10. It was a time of knee-high tube socks, platform Cougar running shoes, and "short-short” sateen shorts.

I was a cute teen, with several redeeming features - none of which, unfortunately, made me cute in the athletic "Wow! Look how fast that girl can run" way, and definitely not in the "Wow! Look how amazingly coordinated that girl is" way either. My cuteness was more in the "Wow. Look how quickly that girl can rattle off the periodic table" kind of way.

Unfortunately, my proficiency in Chemistry or English Literature did not preclude me from having to participate in PE, as we called it. "Physical Education" is how it showed up on report cards; however, I maintain that there was no "education" component to it at all – more of a grueling hour daily of being pelted by balls during dodge ball or thinking of ways to avoid smacking the volleyball with the inside of my wrists.

And when the weather turned to less rainy (you see, I live in the Pacific Northwest where it basically buckets with rain 360 days a year, and is drizzly the other five) we were pushed outside to "run". The runs had none of the training aspects you might find in the bigger high schools, and we had no guidance from our PE teacher other than the "RUN FASTER!" she would bellow out her window as she followed us IN HER CAR through the streets of our small town (oh yes she did!).

So, one less-rainy day in 1982, I was sporting my beautiful blue and red striped tube socks, my red sateen shorts, and my freshly decaled "A Touch of Class" t-shirt that was all the rage back then and shuffling behind Mark Barnes* (*names have been changed to protect the clueless) - a beautiful, feathered-haired god with whom I had been besotted since I first laid eyes on him in grade 8 (TWO YEARS before) and who had no idea I existed. (You can feel the adolescent angst now, can't you?)

On that day, I was doing my jog/shuffle in a best effort to keep up with Mark when I got struck with an idea – I would sprint past him in my most graceful canter and toss a clever line over my shoulder to him. Yes, that was my moment of brilliance – an intricate plan that was hatched in a split second after two years of unrequited adoration.

We were nearing our destination so I had to make my move. I picked up my pace, pulled my head up, and did the best impersonation of an athlete I could muster. But, in a moment that was indicative of most of my romantic life for years to come, I planned poorly. For, as I was making my move to sprint past him, we came up on a chain link gate. It was just over knee-high and if I was going to execute my over-the-shoulder clever remark, I had to jump the chain and toss my remark simultaneously.

At this point, you may have guessed that coordination is not a strength of mine. As I was mid-air, giggling out my witty "Watch out slowpokes!" comment, my toe caught the chain, I spun like a fly on a web, landed face first in a massive mud puddle and sprained three fingers on the hand I had tried to brace myself with.

My darling Mark Barnes, the love of my life, the boy whom I had coveted from afar, did not even break stride. That feathered-haired, tube socked god leapt that chain like a gazelle, while derisively barking in laughter, and then just carried on.

It took me all of the next class to get cleaned up, and I truly thought I might perish from mortification.

I never did profess my love to Mark Barnes.

But the sprained fingers did get me out of PE for a week.