Surviving Catholic school in the 70's and 80's

What fond memories flood my head when I think about having attended a Catholic school during the late 70's and early 80's.  The joy of being taught by nuns, women who are angry and sexually deprived, and so are even more angry, and dislike children with a passion.  Ah, what fun.  There's nothing like going to school dressed like everyone else, in ugly maroon and gray plaid with a sexy criss cross tie cutting across that foxy Peter Pan collar, while wearing what can only be described as black orthopedic shoes and knee high socks. If that doesn't scream HAWT, I don't know what does.
Of course, the P.E. uniform rivaled the regular uniform by forcing you to wear those GOD-awful shorts that are, for unknown reasons, back in style.  You know the ones I am talking about...the wedgie-producing running shorts with the piping around the legs and up the sides.  Oh yeah, now you get it.  Couple a pair of those in maroon with gold piping and add a nice manly golden t-shirt to that, and you've got some nice-looking kids playing dodge ball in the gym.
Does anyone else remember wearing the P.E. uniform UNDER your jumper because there were no such things as locker rooms in grammar school?  One week on, one week off of P.E., wearing that uniform under your jumper because you had to change in the classroom with all 29 of your classmates right there with you.  Draping your polyester nightmare over the back of your chair so it would be there waiting for you to come back sweaty and smelly. Then you'd slip that thing on right over your wet, stinking gym clothes and go about the rest of your day, ignoring the mounting stench oozing from your pre-pubescent armpits, trying to look innocent and clueless as to the origin of the odor. Wasn't that FUN?!?!
Let's talk about those jumpers.  What the fuck was the material?  When I first started school, they were made out of cotton and quite soft. Then suddenly, without warning, they began making them out of what can only be described as fireproof nylon.  Itchy as hell and literally almost fireproof.  I can say this because my friends and I tested that theory in high school by trying to light our skirts on fire...and failing miserably.  I guess they were concerned about our safety.  Having them come to mid-knee was probably a safety precaution, too.  Ugly as homemade sin and fire-retardant.  Out-fuckin-standing. The boys were lucky.  Navy pants and a white collared shirt, maroon tie...not very offensive at all and totally unfair!  We could wear polyester maroon pants in the winter if we chose, but rarely did we.  They were disgusting and heinous, making the jumper, and later the skirt and vest seem almost attractive.  Elastic-waisted, form-fitting to the knee, and never the right length so your mom had to hem them causing them to be uneven at best.  I always opted to freeze my legs off, even in the snow. Most of us did. Better to be cold than unattractive, right?
But the best part of going to a Catholic school HAD to be the fact that the nuns were actually allowed to administer corporal punishment.  A term they translated loosely and to suit their particular cruelty preferences. They certainly all had their own brand of mean. Some yelled, some hurled insults in front of the whole class, while others liked to send a nasty note home to mom that had to be signed and returned the next day. The verbal shit was bad enough. Like asking if someone was dropped on their head as a baby because they couldn't answer a question about the reading, or telling a girl she was going to hell for having her skirt too short. As we got older, we developed a thick skin to that kind of bullshit. We had to pay a certain amount of money every time we put our feet up on the crossbar of the desk, or had lip gloss on, or a fancy hair clip, or chewed gum in class. Then we'd donate that money to the missions. Our class had more mission babies than students. Maybe we were bad at following rules, or maybe the nuns needed to focus on our education, not checking to see if our legs were crossed daintily at the ankles with feet tucked under our chairs. Yeah, that was another offense that was assessed a fine.
But as the saying goes, sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.  Unless you heard the same fucking thing over and over again until you started to believe it. Words paled by comparison to the interesting ways they found to inflict physical punishment on us for basically just being kids. Get a math problem wrong on the blackboard, get smacked across your ass. Get caught talking in class, have a ruler whacked across your knuckles. Shoot spitballs, ok I know, that's bad and should be punished.  But should you get hit in the back of the head by a pissed off nun?  You did. Goofing off and fooling around, if the hitting didn't stop you, one nun in particular would stuff you in a trash can and shove you and the can into the hallway. That same nun would threaten to staple our knee socks to our legs if we didn't pick them up.  Good times, good times.  My favorite teacher of all, was the one who was the most creative when it came to discipline.  If you were talking, passing a note, or basically doing something you were not supposed to, she knew.  She could be in the closet getting out art supplies or at the board with her back to the whole class, writing notes...and goddammit if she didn't know what was happening and WHO was doing it.  Without a word, she would grab one of those dusty ass blackboard erasers, spin around at lightning speed, and launch that thing directly at the offending party, nailing them squarely in the head.  Every fucking time.  I was the lucky recipient once.  I say once because after 8 years in a Catholic school being monitored by these psychotic women, I learned how not to get caught.  Except for that one time.  I don't remember who I was talking to or what it was about, but in retrospect, it had better have been pretty friggin important.  What I do remember was the eraser missile making direct contact with my right temple, scaring the shit out of me, and depositing an ass-load of chalk dust into my hair. Dear Lord, how humiliating!  What did I learn that day?  Not to talk in class?  Oh hell no. I learned that I had better improve my method so I didn't get busted again...that eraser hurt!
We weren't always tortured little souls.  We did learn how to memorize entire chapters worth of material in order to successfully get through recitations without being yelled at or spanked.  We all knew how to set up what would now be called the anally-retentive notebook of someone suffering with OCD.  Was it a positive experience?  Who knows? Does it make for great stories to tell our kids when they complain about school or a particular teacher, fucking A it does!  Would I want to do it all over again? Are you friggin kidding me right now???