News: Greatly Exaggerated

Contrary to popular opinion (and the astounding radio silence), I am in fact alive (or at least putting forth a reasonable facsimile thereof).

That would be a cool band name: A Reasonable Facsimile Thereof. Then again a name that long inevitably invites shortening, oftentimes to an ill-thought out acronym: A.R.F.T....yeah, not so cool.

Good thing that, of the many talents I possess (including an appreciation for the lost art of speaking softly but walking loudly, uncannily locating the one thing that is not on sale in a store and then lusting after it unrelentingly, and the ability to get lost repeatedly on my way to places I have been even more repeatedly), the ability to create music (at least in any form that does not induce spontaneous bleeeding) is not one of them. So I am always coming up with band names, but never will they be used...

Another thing that is not necessarily a talent of mine: Trapeze.

Yes, you heard correctly, I said Trapeze.

Now you might think to yourself that it might not be the wisest idea in the world for a woman who got five stitches in her chin last year due to a precipitous tumble she took walking down the street to be launching herself off of a 40 foot platform into the air on the strength of what is essentially an overgrown bird perch. If you also consider that she would be attempting this feat in front of approximately 10 of her co-workers. Then you would be right.

Actually the trapeze itself worked out okay. I apparently take little issue (with the assurance of a safety harness and cords) with hurling my body off of a slender platform. Tumbling downwards rapidly toward the ground, generally not an issue for me. More of a default state really. The prospect of having to hook my knees over the bar of the swing/perch/trapeze (still not sure what the right term is) was certainly more daunting. Managed it the first time, but only after a succession of misattempts, which left me hanging upside down - motionless - on a perch that is supposed to still be swinging through the air (during which you stick your arms out and arch your back, reaching out at though someone on another swing is going to catch you - which, once you advance, will be the case). Felt an uncanny resemblance to an overgrown fruit bat. Would have analogized myself to Fifty Cent in that description just now, but visually, that leap can't be made, and not even because of the ethnic and gender inconsistencies between us. Fitty's got abs. I, apparently, fail to even have traces of such muscle. It took me longer to get off of the trapeze/swing, than it took me to get myself hooked onto it, due to the aforementioned lack of abs, and thus a continual failure to be able to curl my body up from the hanging position to reach up and grab the bar and thus unhook my legs.

No elegant curling and unhooking for me. It was more flopping and flailing. Sort of like Mike Meyers' Sprockets' dance on SNL, except upside down and hanging from a trapeze swing.

Not exactly the picture of grace, but a victory nonetheless. Why? In part because I overcame my fear - of freezing on the platform, of completely failing to do what I was supposed to once becoming a hurling projectile, and of totally embarassing myself. But mostly because of one simple fact: NO BLOOD.

See, prior to my short, if not eventful, trapezing career, I was taking a turn on the trampoline. Not your dinky Richard Simmons Sweating to the Oldies trampoline. Or even the Johnny's Got This Kick-Ass Trampoline In His Backyard That We Hang Out On Every Day After School kind of trampoline. This was Olympic Grade trampoline. And, man, was it bouncy.

So bouncy, that it allowed me to jump up and down and tuck and roll in the air. Higher and higher. Up and up. And around. Twist. Bouncing, Bouncing. Whee. Damn, I am good at this. Sure, I can do that scissor kick. I can kick my legs out in a sort of splits in the air and touch my toes the way the cheerleaders always do. Nevermind the fact that I have never done the splits in my whole life and that on terra firma, despite my short legs, I have issues trying to touch my toes. Here I go....

Thunk.

And here I look up at the ceiling as I am laying on the corner of the trampoline, the wind and any residual air knocked out of me, my left eye and part of my temple throbbing, five of my co-workers and the instructor standing over me asking if I am okay.

I am okay. Fine. Fine. Nothing to see her. Swelling, bruising not a problem. As long as there is no blood, it's a victory.

And it is.

Punchline: I woke up the next morning feeling the pain of the bruise on my eye as I squinted to greet the sunlight of the morning, but really that was nothing in comparison with the pain that was the throbbing of my knee. Looking down as I swung my legs out of bed to greet the cold floor and begin the day, I saw it. Very nice eggplant colored welt on my knee. As you see, it was my knee that had hit me in the face the day before. And thus the results of my own twisted social experiment end as follows: It is conclusive that my head is in fact harder than my knee.