I was always the last one to finish the mile in middle school. Chubby and morally opposed to forced exercise, I found myself minutes behind my classmates– always sweaty and short of breath by the end of my seven laps, embarrassed that I couldn’t keep up.
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I imagine that, in the fifties, things were simple. A boy asked you out, you were “going together,”, he took you to the sock hop (what even is a sock hop?) and then he dumped you right before home-ec. I’m not saying it was easy, but it was simple. It was clear cut. (Or maybe it wasn’t at all, sorry grandma.)
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