Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Don't Tell My Parents

I always wanted a trampoline.

The day I first saw a big one, I knew I had to have it. It was the most glorious thing I had ever seen.

The day I first jumped on a big one, I felt that I had met my soulmate, in the form of mesh stretched across a steel frame, attached by springs.

It wasn't until I was around 19 that I finally had this soulmate sitting joyously in my backyard.

It took years, YEEEAAAARRRSSSS, of begging. Pleading. Reasoning. Then more begging.

Finally it's assembled in the yard, only after my Dad makes repeated visits during the build, just to make sure the foam safety padding isn't forgotten. No Dad, I didn't forget.

The first jumps are magical. The next jumps are bordering a religious experience. I can't believe this is real.

Now the jumps come only after a verbal contract with my parents:




Fairly straight-forward.

So it's 2 days after we get it, and news of the new purchase travels fast. My friend Ross is one of the first ones to come over for a jump.

We're both doing tricks and jumps and jumps and tricks, all under the watchful eye of my Mom who's at the kitchen sink. Everything is going well until Ross does some spin move and loses his balance. He lands too close to the edge, and his momentum leads him off the trampoline. Instead of being thrown onto the lawn, he rolls onto his side, attempting to grab onto the frame. His side hits the padded bar, and he groans in pain, then flops onto the lawn.


He lies there holding his ribs, fighting for breath. A million things are going through my head.

Most of those things are "I CAN'T LOSE THIS TRAMPOLINE!!!"

I run to the kitchen, with a fraudulent air of relaxation and calm. I'm an AC-tor.

I get two large cups full of ice. "They're for frosty beverages, of course - all this jumping has worked up a sweat." I also pocket a plastic bag.

I return to Ross who has regained his ability to speak, but is now feeling a crunch every time he breathes. It's probably the muscle that is knotted up and rubbing against the ribs when you breathe, I explained. My 19 year old brain is grasping for straws.

He puts the bag of ice on his side.

Soon after, the pain is too much to bare and Ross needs to leave. DON'T TELL MY PARENTS, I plead. He doesn't.

He sneaks out of the house so they can't see him limping along with his leaking bag of ice, and drives home. Apparently on the way home the pain gets even worse, and he drives to the hospital instead. It's confirmed: 3 broken ribs.

I don't remember much after this. I think it's my brain trying to protect me from evil. All I remember is Ross saying something about blood in his pee.

That's gross, and I feel bad for Ross.

But I still have my trampoline.