On Saturday, a group of bold adventurers gathered in Bellevue to risk injury, death, and annoyance in order to jump on a multitude of trampolines, undeterred by tales of girls who had bitten their tongues off and couldn’t speak for a full year.
I had encouraged people to wear ridiculous clothing if at all possible, something fluttery that might swirl around them attractively whilst they jumped; I myself was hoping to find one of the full-length ballet tutus appropriate for La Sylphide, but had no such luck. I decided the next most ridiculous thing I could wear would be a completely sequined jacket and a long purple wig, for maximum sparkling AND movement. This was both an awesome and a terrible choice.
When we got there, Sky High Sports made us sign waivers, which again reminded us of how likely we were to be injured, and we STILL pressed forward. It was then that we noted just how many rules they had, each no-no accompanied by a man on the monitor waggling a finger in the universal ‘naughty, naughty’ gesture. No jumping in socks. No hanging on the yellow pads. No standing on the red pads. No double-jumping. Nothing allowed in pockets. No laying or sitting on the trampolines. Most damning of all, no bad words.
NO BAD WORDS? What did they expect me to do when I shattered a leg, shout “OH GOLLY GOSH DARN HECK!”?
Promising myself that I could swear just as much as I wanted to if and when I injured myself, we proceeded to shove our belongings into a series of lockers before we got down to business.
And get down to business we did. The place was crawling with children with no regard for their safety, running rampant across trampolines where clumsy, elephantine adultsI was trying to jump AND not squash children. It was insanely, ridiculously fun, springing up and down, spinning around in circles. Within minutes, I announced that I’d like to have my wedding on these trampolines. One by one, we attempted bouncing off the trampoline wall and doing some manner of trick. I gamely flung myself off it and tumbled head over heels, promptly losing a shoe. I also lost a shoe in a collision with Rindy after she put on her pirate eyepatch and lost depth perception, and there was a desperate battle to recover it–Rindy is already taller than me, and playing keep-away on a trampoline just isn’t fair. But is awesome.
The safety no-no naughty monitors all eyed our group suspiciously. Apparently, they don’t get many adults out on the trampolines, especially a group of adults like us, who almost universally appeared that we didn’t know our limits. Poor Anne was picked on quite a lot by the safety no-no naughty monitors, first telling her that her shoes were unacceptable for jumping (no laces), then that she couldn’t jump in socks, and then they wanted to check her wristband, and then when Jim took off his sweatshirt and handed it to her, they scolded her for that, saying it was a safety hazard. Yes, of course. The sweatshirt is the safety hazard, not the small children bouncing across six trampolines underfoot. Inanimate monster, endangering us all!
Tristan and I deliberately tried to double-jump when the monitors weren’t watching and couldn’t pull it off, so I swore for good measure. Then Cole attempted to teach me how to bounce up from off of my back and I had a wig incident.
In addition to the trampoline floors and walls area, there was a separate area with two trampolines where you could fling yourself off into a pit of foam. While I was waiting in line, a tiny child in a tutu approached me (after my crusty withered heart, that one), tugged on my hand and sweetly asked if my hair was really purple. She would have only needed to watch me jump to find out the truth. Boolia hopped right up to the edge, stared into the foam abyss, and said “OH FUCK THIS” and backed away. I was a little more foolish and went for it, attempting a spectacular cannonball leap into the foam. As it turns out, the cannonball is ideal for maximum foam penetration, and I sunk to what felt like the bottom, losing my glasses while my wig turned around on my head. As I attempted to claw my way to the surface, I wondered what it would be like to die in a pit of foam, and additionally wondered if perhaps they had one of those claw arms used in attempts to win stuffed animals to retrieve my corpse. Eventually, I pulled myself out, in front of a crowd of people who were no doubt dying with laughter and mocking comments on the inside while I straightened my wig and brushed off my dignity. Rindy later described my moments in the foam as ‘looking into the eye of a purple whirlpool’. Other people performed the foam leap many times; I decided I was lucky to survive it once.
Jumping on the trampolines was actually much more work than anticipated. Yes, fine. I am not in great shape. Or even good shape. I can walk for a lot of miles and be fine. I can do high-impact aerobics for a good long time and be tired, but not exhausted. Jumping on a trampoline for an hour? I could not do. Nor could anyone else. Little by little, we crept over to the side to wipe our brows and rest, then go back out and jump again, each jump period getting shorter. Toward the end, body heat hiked even higher due to the wig and the jacket, I stood up too quickly and the world went black for a moment. Not enough to ruin my fun, but enough to make me reconsider hot costume elements next time.
Upcoming event ideas:
Rockaroke (karaoke with a live band! Of course we would have to dress like our favorite glam rockstar.) Whirlyball: Beyond Thunderdome Indoor Go-Kart racing Blacklight Mini Golf
