Bouncing into Bravery...and Maybe a Bikini

I love exercise. I just don’t do it because I don’t want to. I wish that I had better reasons, but the truth is, I avoid it on most days because I hate being sweaty, I don’t like being chased by rabid dogs when walking around the neighborhood, and I don’t like being sore the next day. I could name more reasons, but honestly, we don’t have that kind of time.

I have tried it all, from Richard Simmons to Chuck Norris, and they all worked, so the reason that I quit was on me. I get bored quickly, then I move on. Well, not anymore (I say optimistically).

A couple of weeks ago I started a new exercise program, and so far, I am finding it very exciting and doable, mainly because I only have to do it for 10 minutes a day to reap the benefits, and I can do most anything for 10 minutes. Also, it is only day two.

This new fitness journey began when I saw an Instagram video on rebounding. For those of you who do not know what rebounding is, it is basically calisthenics on a miniature trampoline. The influencers made it look like so much fun, I pulled out my debit card that night and committed.

I bought a mini trampoline.

When it arrived, my hubby and I assembled it with only a couple of minor disputes, so that was a good sign, as we typically have completely different construction styles. Mine is “read the instructions”; his is “this part fits into this part so it must be right”. We both decided it was best for him to take the maiden voyage in case the extra screw we had left over after putting it all together was of great importance. He took a few healthy bounces, and we deemed it “safe for plus-sized humans”.  I made a few test bounces myself, then put it away for the night.

The next morning, I woke up ready to “spring” into my new exercise program. I adjusted my new purchase right in front of the window in my office, thinking all that natural light would trick my brain into thinking I was outside in the fresh air, increasing the benefits of my bouncy fitness program. I climbed aboard and began leaping like a happy, carefree deer in the forest.

That mental vision lasted for about two minutes, then the deceptive thought was replaced with a more truthful reality.

My mind suggested that I consider the view I was providing to those outside looking into the window, which, in case you are wondering, was right in the front of the house. The view I was giving included all my juicy goodness, jiggling, shaking, oozing, gyrating, and vibrating as I jumped up and down. Basically, I looked like an unmolded Jello mold being wheeled down a bumpy, country road. I hit pause and quickly pulled the blinds until I finished that day’s workout.

Relocation was a must, and if you have never seen a mini trampoline, they are "mini" compared to their outdoor counterparts but still take up a lot of floor space. Not willing to give up the living room as a gym, I looked around the house until I found the perfect spot. It was secluded, so the trampoline would only be seen by me during my workout sessions. That spot, made for my new adventure, was the walk-in closet in the spare bedroom.

You read that right.

I now go into the closet and jump up and down like Tigger from Winnie the Pooh, while surrounded by all my off-season hanging clothes and extra bedding that we only use when guests are in town. I open the closet door, a must to prevent claustrophobia, climb onto my elastic perch, crank up the music, and start bouncing around like popcorn kernels in hot oil.

For 10 solid minutes of "BOIINGING bliss", my body fights gravity in an attempt to build stronger bones, get firm muscles, push back the signs of aging, and reap great cardiovascular benefits. It doesn’t feel like a workout, because it’s fun! It is also therapeutic, as it has helped me overcome the trampoline trauma I have carried with me since I was in the fourth grade when Coach Hedge, our gym teacher, introduced us to the trampoline.

I still remember walking into gym class, and Coach introduced us to the round platform of elastic called a trampoline (this was long before they were a staple in the backyard of thousands of families; for us, it was like a unicorn sighting). It was so exciting when we walked in, and one by one, we got to take a turn, jumping, doing back and knee drops, while our fellow classmates were supposed to stay close enough to catch anyone who took a spill. (The fact that the only thing between me and a life-threatening head drop on that hardwood floor of the gymnasium was a 10-year-old did not go unnoticed by me.)

Towards the end of the two-week session where we learned everything there was to know about this recreational activity, Coach Hedge said we had finally graduated to “somersault day”. He gave us step-by-step details on how to successfully do this death-defying stunt, then welcomed the first brave kid to try.

One by one, my fellow classmates succeeded at the aerial stunt; the bragging rights alone were worth the brush with death. I had zero desire to do this impossible feat, so I kept offering my place in line to someone else, praying the bell would ring and we would run out of time so that I did not have to participate. My prayers were not answered, and eventually, I had to meet my fate.

Coach asked why I did not want to give it a try. I tried to whisper loud enough for him to hear but not loud enough for my fellow students to be informed, “I’m too scared.”

His exact reply was, “You are not going to get hurt. I promise."

I found out that day that Coach Hedge was a liar.

I climbed up onto the trampoline, bounced with all my might, and on the fourth bounce, I gave it all I had. I was suspended in the air for what seemed like an unnatural period of time, and during that gravity-defying moment, I tried to do all of the moves Coach had told me to do, but something happened that he did not warn me of.

As I began my flip, my body completely in the upside-down position, my mind said, “Umm…you can’t do this.” That was just enough doubt to stop my spiral, sending me crashing down onto my neck and head.

I was unconscious for a brief second, waking up to seeing sparkles, and my teeth hurting from smashing together during the sudden stop. I looked to my right, and there was Coach Hedge, his eyes as big as his eyelids would allow them to be, and he said with great anxiety, “Are you OK?” I would have probably cried, but as soon as he asked the question, he began to giggle. (As an adult, I fully understand. People falling is always funny. It’s science.)

Because of that traumatic experience, I have tried to avoid trampolines for most of my life, so it feels good to declare to you that I can do brave things, and this new workout regimen is proof of that. And by brave, I mean that I will not be doing a somersault, and even if I did, I am in such a small, highly padded place thanks to being surrounded by thirteen coats (five which are down-filled, three of which are fake fur), four quilts, three comforters and six pillows—that if I do fall off my new trampoline, it will be like falling into a pile of marshmallows, making injury impossible…but I am still claiming bravery points.

Not only does my new rebounder make me brave, but if I do the math right, I should be able to bounce myself right into bikini season next year. Or maybe the year after that. Not sure how many bounces it will take to cancel out an ice cream sandwich, but I will keep you posted.