Last fall, I walked into a reused sports equipment store. If you know anything about me, you know this is not my usual kind of haunt. Shyly sidling up to the counter, I asked the salesperson, “Do you have any of those old fashioned jump ropes with the plastic chunks that make the chika, chika sound?” He just grinned and pointed to the wall at the back.
And that, folks, began my journey. I picked up a new / old habit of skipping rope. About three times a week, I turn on a timer, some music or a podcast, and I jump rope. On a good day, for nearly 10 minutes. On a bad day…substantially less.
The reason for this foray into such seemingly childish behavior is all the hot perimenopause influencers and healthy, healthy whatnots in my algorithm were starting to talk about the importance of high impact stimulation on our bones to prevent osteoporosis. Since I’ve got that unwelcome trend coming at me from all sides of my genetic algorithm–and I’m typically not one to run unless being chased–I decided this was a more fun way to try to get the bag-o-bones a-movin’.
When I say this is a new / old habit, please allow a little trip in Ye Olde Memory Time Machine…
I LOVED JUMPING ROPE AS A KID! Exhibit A:
In 1985, The Kingsport Times-News came to my school and did a full page Lifestyles story on the phenomenon of all us little girls jumping rope, doing our hand-clapping sing-songs like “bo-bo-ski-otten-otten.” That’s me and my best friend jumping individual ropes. I’m holding the end of hers, she, the end of mine, whilst we simultaneously jump inside a larger, double dutch-style rope. We thought we were tough stuff.
In gym class, we used to have massive jump rope marathons. The teacher would put on some music (I recall, Falco’s “Rock Me, Amadeus” and Mr. Mister’s “Kyrie Eleison” because: sometimes our music teacher also taught gym class?!?!), and we would jump rope as long as we could until we a) tripped, b) fell down, or c) tired out and simply quit.
The summer between fourth and fifth grade, my aunt died suddenly and unexpectedly at the age of thirty–just simply didn’t wake up one morning. It was a tragic, awful, shocking thing that rocked our family to the core. Because I was ten, and frankly already an overdramatic little snot, I really spun out around what this death could mean. God could just come and take you away like that? I remember jumping rope in these marathons just as hard and fast as I could, this little ten-year-old body, feeling like it was an obligation because I. Was. Alive.
These days, skipping rope makes me feel more like I’m dying. Just kidding. Not really. I huff and puff and make my way through it. I stare off into the middle distance, try to reconnect with my younger self who loved it so much. I can’t remember my younger self going having to endure some of the more humbling bodily functions that happen whilst jumping as a middle aged woman.
“I’ve just sort-of stood in the middle of what my life is, and something, some idea, some piece of story, something that matters to me, tackles me. Often, from behind, I usually don’t see it coming. And I have to wrestle it, beat it into metaphors, tie it up in storytelling.” ~ Jo Carson
I’ve spoken often and fondly about the brief time I had the great, good fortune to be mentored by Jo Carson, even namecheck her in the Teapot show. One thing Jo and I certainly shared was the love of a good metaphor. Though I fear I may take it too far. I’ve often joked that I suffer from metaphor-itis.
What I love about storytelling is the power of a good metaphor to encapsulate an idea into more digestible data packets.
While I know I’ve said this so many times, there’s just not too many times to say it: We have to pay attention to the power of our language, including and especially the power of our metaphors. For instance, when complaining to a friend about how living the artist’s lifestyle can be quite an uphill climb financially, I called myself “broke.” She gently placed her hand on my arm, looked me squarely in the eye, and said, “Friend, don’t call yourself broke. You are not broken.”
I may not always completely love skipping rope every minute, certainly not when those plastic chinks thwack me in the back because I’ve tripped over it, I genuinely appreciate the way I feel when I’m done. One of the metaphors I always think about as I’m doing it is the difference between jumping rope and trying to clear hurdles. I only have to jump this high. And again. And again.
If I can think of life right now as more like jumping rope and less like having to jump over hurdles. If I can try to embrace my younger self who found joy in only having to jump this high over and over again. If I can find a friend that I can hold onto the rope for as we churn and churn together, even slap hands with before we get back to work. Then maybe I can just Kyrie Eleison right on down that road that I must travel…