
Urban rebounding. “Are you serious?” was my thought when Jessie (best friend) suggested we take this group exercise class together. We’ve been at it for the past ten months, but stepping onto that dangerous plane of synthetic black took a medium amount of arm-pulling.
It had something to do with the last time I was on a trampoline, the summer before 9th grade. I was babysitting two neighborhood kids and thought of myself a hip babysitter. You know, the ones who play pretend and hold a similar, if not greater, enthusiasm for whatever the adventure.
They had a giant trampoline in the back yard, and as noon rolled around and lunch settled into our stomachs, we headed outside for a bounce. Jumping up and down is only entertaining for an inch of time. We often needed a set of arbitrary rules or invisible obstacles, like lava, so we could jump with purpose.
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