I defy you to come up with something that is more out-of-character for me to do than a 9am Saturday trampoline workout class in the suburbs. And yet, Saturday morning, I found myself in Sky Zone Roswell*, which is essentially a gym floor made entirely of trampolines, with extra trampolines on the wall for parkour/safety.
This was, incidentally, not my idea. I came at the invitation of a friend of mine from nerd camp (lo these many years ago), about whom I feel roughly the same as Leslie Knope feels about Anne Perkins. She is beautiful and terrifyingly smart and has the legs and cardiovascular system of someone who enjoys running as much as I enjoy breakfast tacos.
But my friend had assured me that every time that she had gone before, the workout had consisted of basic cardio, done on your own little individual section of the trampoline mat. We (I) could suck quietly, in a corner, she reasoned, and that seemed fine to me. (It was in Roswell. This is the first time I’ve been there in the 10 years I’ve lived in Atlanta, so if I reasoned that if I was truly shamed by my failure, I didn’t have to go back ever.)
Unbeknownst to my friend, however, this week’s trampoline fitness extravaganza was led by a new trainer. This man had biceps like hams and the relentless cheer that comes from being a personal trainer for a class full of people making fools of themselves on trampolines. And he did not want for us to do cardio on our little trampolines. He wanted us to sprints across the entire trampoline floor.
Reader, it was bad.
I faceplanted–I swear to god I am not making this up–six times during my run down the length of the trampoline gym. I mean, no one was good at trampoline sprints, but my being new to this + being out of shape + lack of coordination meant that I was pretty clearly the worst in the class. So, once sprint time was over, I elected to go behave like an adult and hide in the bathroom while attempting not to vomit for the next 20 minutes.
My friend joined me about 10 minutes later. Part of this was to make sure I had not died, but from what she described it seemed like the workout was not exactly her speed, either. Apparently, after I left, it sounded like the trainer had decided that people needed to run on the trampoline walls. And y’all, there are many things in life that I am comfortable trying, but trampoline parkour is not on that list.
After I had reassured my friend that I would not die on her, we headed back out to the trampoline pit, where we got to (finally, thank god) settle back down on our individual trampolines. This part alternated between fun (trampoline jumping jacks!) and less-fun-but-comfortably-so (trampoline planks!). I woke up the next day with appropriately sore muscles and a skinned elbow.
If nothing else, the experience did show that I’ve gotten a little better about embarrassment-crying in public, apparently, so that was pretty great. A year ago, if I had fallen on my ass in such a gloriously literal manner, I probably a) would not have gone back to class b) would have started crying. So, the fact that I hid in the bathroom to go puke, rather than to cry? Progress!
(Final conclusion, for those who are interested: the class is $5 for beginners and is pretty fun, minus the sprints. Totally recommended if you want to feel productive and also ridiculous.)
* One of three Sky Zones in the Atlanta metro area.