Twelve years ago when Brent and I were married we spent the first 40 days of our new life together crammed into a military TLF (a glorified hotel room) in Columbus, Mississippi. I was 20 years old with a college degree, a teaching license and no clue where we would be stationed next. So job hunting was an impossibility and I had serious time on my hands. If you know me at all then you know “time on my hands” isn’t a good look for me. So I did what any typical 20 year old married college graduate would do – I spent 40 hours a week watching daytime television and crocheting.
To my dismay crocheting and The View didn’t quite meet all of my needs so I found myself at the gym a few hours a week too. I wanted to try a step aerobics class but needed a partner in crime. So I enlisted the only other person I knew in Columbus, Mississippi: my husband of six days.
Now Brent has always been an athlete so I knew he wouldn’t have any trouble with the class. And I had taken step a time or two in college so I figured I could hang well enough. I’m sure we both managed to make it through the class but that part is all a blur. Because the only thing either of us remember from that day is the warm up.
The bubbly blonde instructor scattered jump ropes around the room, turned on some tunes and told us to start jumping. And I guess it had been a while since I’d tried my hand at the ol’ jump rope because somehow I forgot that nimble little bouncy jog you’re supposed to do as you’re skipping along. All I could remember about jumping rope was, well, jumping. So I swung the rope around me once, jumped as high as I could and came down hard with both feet…WHOMP!
Then again…WHOMP!
And again…WHOMP!
After three WHOMP!s I looked around and realized I was the only one WHOMPing. Everyone else was doing a cute little bob. Except, of course, my husband of less than a week. He was just starting at me, aghast, with a look that was simultaneously saying, “what are you doing?!” and “what have I done?!”. Because at that very moment the reality of our gene pool flashed before his eyes. And all hopes for fathering a fast-footed quarterback faded. He was left with only this…
an out of control jump-roping wife…
…and a long, long future ahead of him.
And me? I just went back to crocheting.
(These shots that took me down memory lane were actually taken at our school’s Jump for St. Jude last week. Thankfully sometime in the last 12 years I reacquired the jump roping bouncy bob. Nevertheless, much better pics of much cuter – and more coordinated – subjects coming soon.)
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