I have never been an athlete.

Believe me, my parents tried to introduce me to sports at a very young age, but nothing ever stuck with me. My father, whose best memories of his childhood involved participating in sports, enrolled me in every sport from gymnastics to T-ball. I even remember my father promising me that if I made just one, single, measly goal for my junior league soccer team, I could quit the team. According to my parents, the very next game I sprinted across the field, wildly kicking the black and white ball into the white webbed net before leisurely strolling off the field to enjoy a Capri Sun on the sidelines for the rest of the game.

However, my athletic shortcomings have never bothered me. Whenever I felt disappointed in myself for coming in second at an elementary track and field days or losing in gym class, I reminded myself that I was one of the fastest readers in my class and very few fourth graders could play piano like I could.

But now, years after elementary school, I am still expected to uphold a sort of athletic standard, a standard determined by the results of the widely hated, deeply dreaded Fitnessgram. One day of the year, students are escorted by coaches onto a basketball court to perform a predetermined set of basic exercises, from push-ups to crunches. The Fitnessgram also measures flexibility and how fast students can finish a mile.

Even though I’m not naturally athletic, I do try to take care of my body. I try to eat healthfully and I work out whenever I get the chance (but when swimsuit season gets close I start to exercise with the vigor of an aerobic dance instructor from the 1980s). As someone who values health, I respect the Fitnessgram’s intended purpose to estimate students’ health and promote healthy lifestyles.

The Fitnessgram, though, does very little but drag students out of their classes to touch their hands together behind their backs in a cramped gym and powerwalk around the track like avid old women on their afternoon workouts. Then, after wasting my time demonstrating how little upper body strength I have, I’m sent back to class slightly winded and wishing I could take a shower.

So today, I will file into the small gym alongside the choir students and listen to the monotonous beep of the sit-up counter and look like I’m busting out one of my signature spastic dance moves as I try to touch my fingers behind my back. Luckily, I know that students all across the state of Texas look just as ridiculous as I do during the test.