What was the last thing you did for play or fun?
There’s a peculiar species of confidence that grips you when you approach a trampoline as an adult. It’s the same misguided optimism that convinces you that you can still eat three slices of pizza at midnight without consequences, or that those jeans from 2019 will definitely fit “once you just break them in a bit.”
Last weekend, I decided to visit Ozone at Village Market for some trampoline jumping. How hard could it be? I’d done this as a kid. I’d been excellent at it, in fact. Physics hadn’t changed. Gravity was still the same. I was basically the same person, just with better reasoning skills and a bank account.
Reader, I was wrong about everything.
The First Five Minutes: Delusional Glory
The first few jumps were magnificent. I was flying. I was weightless. I was practically an astronaut, if astronauts trained at trampoline parks in Nairobi and wore questionable athletic wear. Other jumpers probably looked at me and thought, “Wow, she’s really got it together.”
I tried a spin. It worked! I was a natural. A trampoline prodigy, really. Why had I ever stopped doing this? I should compete professionally. Do they have trampoline Olympics? They should. I would medal.
Minutes Six Through Twelve: The Reckoning Begins
Something started to feel… different. My legs, which had felt springy and powerful moments before, now felt like they belonged to someone else. Someone much older. Someone who hadn’t moved voluntarily since 1993.
But I pressed on. This was fun. I was here for play. Adults need play! I’d read that somewhere, probably in an article about workplace wellness or the importance of joy. I was being intentional. I was prioritizing self-care.
I was also beginning to sweat in places I didn’t know could sweat.
Minutes Thirteen Through Twenty: A Fitness Intervention
Here’s what nobody tells you about trampolines: they’re basically gym equipment disguised as fun. It’s a trap. A bouncy, deceptive trap that tricks you into cardiovascular exercise by making you think you’re just playing.
By minute fifteen, I was no longer jumping so much as willing my body to leave the surface. Each bounce became less “joyful flight” and more “aggressive negotiation with physics.” My lungs had apparently filed a formal complaint. My calves were staging a protest.
The children around me—the children—were still going strong, doing flips and tricks, their tiny efficient bodies mocking my increasingly desperate attempts to maintain basic bounce trajectory.
The Surrender
At exactly twenty minutes, I made the mature, adult decision to stop. Not because I was tired, mind you. Because I was… satisfied. I’d gotten what I came for. I’d played. I’d had fun. Mission accomplished.
I definitely didn’t collapse on the foam pit gasping like a beached whale while a seven-year-old asked if I was okay.
Lessons Learned
- Fitness is apparently not like riding a bicycle. You cannot, in fact, just pick it up again after years of neglect.
- Twenty minutes of jumping is either an impressive feat of endurance or a tragic indicator of physical decline, depending entirely on your perspective and generosity of spirit.
- Children are small because they need to be aerodynamic for all that bouncing. Evolution knew what it was doing.
- “Play” and “exercise” are the same thing when you’re past your twenties, and this feels like a betrayal.
- I need to actually go to a gym. Or at least walk more. Or… something.
The good news? I had fun. The better news? I can still walk, mostly. The best news? I’m definitely going back, because apparently I enjoy humbling experiences and the opportunity to be outperformed by primary school students.
Besides, I’ve got a spin move to perfect. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither is trampoline excellence.
Next time, I’m starting with ten minutes.
