If you are a woman reading this title, you can probably already guess what this blog post is about . . .
The other day I was having coffee with a friend when we got to talking about the dangers of jumping on a trampoline. No, we weren't worried about broken bones or landing on our heads - rather, it was the inevitable "I'm going to pee myself/I'm peeing myself" moment that goes hand in hand with getting on a trampoline.
As a child, the only time I jumped on a trampoline was at a gymnastics class when I was 7. After that, the opportunity just wasn't there. One evening, when I was first dating my husband, we walked to a friends house and Emily started jumping on their trampoline. Thinking this looked like fun, I eagerly got on and bounced once . . . twice . . . oh . . . my . . . Lord?! Once I started, I couldn't stop - and I'm NOT talking about the jumping!
Of course I was embarrassed, and I'm sure Mike and Emily wondered why I walked like a penguin all the way home (longest two blocks in my LIFE)! I vowed there and then that I would NEVER jump on a trampoline again.
Fast forward a few years . . . we moved to an acreage and got a trampoline. I was hopeful when I climbed on, and shamed when I climbed off. Apparently, the only way I will ever be able to jump on a trampoline again will be if I'm wearing a diaper - and I'm pretty sure by then I won't be able to get onto it with my walker.
Unfortunately, doing jumping jacks has the same effect - and I now believe that it's only a great workout if I've wet myself. It's my new sad reality, and I am not ashamed to admit it.
The other day on our way home from holidays, we passed an acreage that had a trampoline in the yard with an outhouse right beside. Someone brilliant lives there.