Much time has passed since my bio-screening yielded perfect results.  I’m reminded of this simple fact every day. A mirror sits perpendicular to my bed, and whenever I sit down, preparing for bed, that mirror sheds reflective light on folds that were once nonexistent. As if that stark nightly reminder wasn’t enough, I thought it was a good idea to put my physique to the test at the most vulnerability-inducing place imaginable: a warehouse full of trampolines.


My friends/fellow new thing adventurers joined me for this bouncy extravaganza, during which our first stop was to the teen-managed front desk/sock dispensary. One weary-eyed teen scanned our Groupon barcodes while another, dazed, asked for our shoe sizes. I’m convinced I could’ve told him “eleventy Godzilla” and he wouldn’t have registered any of it. Still, the trampoline park grip socks fit just fine.

We promptly stuffed our gear into a locker, and I donned my super-cool-and-definitely-not-nerdy GoPro head strap, which you’ll most certainly remember from my kayaking adventure. As I coolly sprinted to the main trampoline court, a different teen stopped me promptly, saying the camera had to be strapped to my chest or stowed in the locker. I didn’t have my chest strap, and the locker was already locked, so the result was 1) absolutely no video of this whole experience and 2) a loss of 50 cents because I had to pay for the locker all over again. Great start.

After the locker debacle (debocker? nah), we took to the main trampoline area to test our limits. I broke a sweat immediately. A stinky, drenching sweat that made me look, smell, and feel grosser than the foam pits into which I would later jump into with utter joy.


Once we destroyed our equilibriums, we ventured to the basketball hoops, where, despite many different explanations of the timing required, I could not get an employee of the complex to properly dish me an alley-oop. Each time, he threw the ball at the peak of my 10+ foot vertical, leaving me falling back to the trampoline as the ball soared miles above my head. Amateur.


The Ninja course came next on our agenda, serving as the most poignant reminder of my physical inability. I finished a total of two obstacles before defeatedly wading through the foam pit to the end of the course.


We headed for the bumper balls next, which, conveniently, can mean both “large plastic balls intended for colliding with one another on a trampoline floor” and “a condition from which I did not suffer during my time at the trampoline park because I was wearing compression shorts.”

More pointed reminders of my physique followed. Trampoline dodgeball (it’s just like dodgeball but on trampolines) stood out. It turns out the youth with whom we played (we called them “red shorts” and “blue shirt”) played with the sole purpose of calling to everyone’s attention my ineptitude at dodging, throwing, and catching. Suffice it to say I retired from trampoline dodgeball quite early. The sign above the court said “7 years and OVER court,” but if I’m being honest (and I am), I don’t know how anyone could play trampoline dodgeball for that long. Luckily, the staff welcomed my early departure despite the time requirement.


55 minutes into our two-hour time slot, we chose to call it a day. The most surprising part of the whole deal? My arms are sore. And I’m still super out of shape. Oh well.