So last night, at 2AM, while watching Ghost Whisperer like total toolbag, I ordered an exercise trampoline. On Amazon.com.
Holy fucking flying monkeys with socks on. What the hell is wrong with me?
I’ll tell you what’s
wrong right with me: I’ve been obsessed with the idea of having an exercise trampoline forever. I think it can be traced by to my deprived upper-middle class childhood. My mother didn’t believe in trampolines. Like fruit roll ups and age appropriate clothing, she felt they were for poor children whose parents didn’t love them. (Not the Carsey children. We were loved. No crazy snack foods or assisted recreation for us.) Not to be deterred, I sought out lower income, unloved children to be friends with in hopes of borrowing their clothes, eating their fruit by the foots, and jumping on their trampolines. My love endured even after taking a header through a trampoline that had dried out in the Texas sun and ripped on impact. (It was unfortunate timing too. I was just a few months away from officially starting puberty and the fruit by the foots were starting to show.)
Then a few summers ago I went to the hub’s father’s house. Low and behold there was a full size trampoline just sitting in the yard. You better believe I hopped my lily white ass into that netted cage and jumped around until the hubs came out to tell me it was time to go home.
Anyway, my obsession was derailed shortly when my friend and life coach bought herself a BalletBarre. I nearly peed myself with jealousy. The hubs was very quick to tell me that I was not, under any circumstance, to bring a pop up ballet studio into our 600sqft apartment. What he neglected to do was have me sign a contract outlining the terms of extension, which I’m certain he feels cover moving to a much, much larger apartment just a short while later. Fortunately for me he is a big, fat sucker. I’ve loopholed my way into a trampoline that is going to park itself SMACK in the middle of my living room. It’s arriving later this week.
Another wind of chance that blew my direction was my downstairs neighbor. In my old apartment I would get thirty to forty seconds into my ten minute trainer DVD and the midget from 202 would come bitching about the noise I was making. You’d think I was training elephants to jump on ridiculously tiny balls or something. I now know my downstairs neighbor, as well as the floor plan to his apartment. I can strategize to maximize my jumping time.
In case you’re wondering, my new exercise trampoline also comes with a stability bar. This may not seem important to you, but after falling off a treadmill last week because I attempted to run with my eyes closed, I have a new appreciation for support systems.
I can only hope, for your sake as much as mine, that this symbol of my success and progress into adulthood is everything I imagined. If all goes well I may swing by American Apparel and pick up some lycra in unflattering colors.
Until it arrives…