Skipping or Something Like It

So, yeah, I’ve been working out. And by working out, I mean skipping. True story.

I’m not naturally a huge fitness freak, believe it or not. There’s my signature blend of laziness and procrastination, for one. And my incredible powers of justification, for another. (Like, why bother working out at all when there’s a small chance the baby weight will just melt off of its own accord when you wean in 18 short months?) I also know that what others call a “runner’s high” or “feeling good,” is actually the experience of your muscles seizing up, your heart pounding out a speed metal solo, your lungs being set on fire and the taste of blood in your mouth.

But my main problem with fitness is the lifestyle. You never hear about people who quietly engage in a moderate amount of exercise and then go about their lives the same as always. Instead, we get real-time social media updates on how far and fast people are running. Dieting has become a lifestyle change, an adaptation of caveman eating habits but with better spices. And you see these people out and about, at the grocery store or on the subway, and they are dressed head to toe in some combination of Lycra, spandex, breathable cotton and high-tech fibres in bright, contrasting colours .

I don’t want to be that guy. I only want to be a little bit healthier and, yes, a dress size or two smaller. But, really, can’t I just go on a diet? Does it have to be a lifestyle change?

I get how it happens, though. It’s hard to make time for better exercise and eating habits when you’re already overextended. It won’t magically fit into your busy schedule if you don’t make it a priority, at least not at first. But, guys, how many priorities can one person have?

So when my brother handed me a skipping rope and told me to jump rope for two minutes, of course I gave it a try. Minute for minute, skipping burns more calories than jogging and gets your heart rate up higher and faster than most other exercises. You can see where this is going. It’s a lazy, wannabe-fit girl’s dream. I can skip! Pshaw. Double unders, crossies, double dutch, you name it, I skipped it, uh, 25 years ago.

But whatever. There I was skipping and skipping and skipping for what felt like an eternity and a half.

“45 seconds,” my brother called out.

What an asshole. How is that even possible? I was gasping for air. I kept tripping over the rope. I couldn’t see straight.

“No stopping. Keep going. That’s it. A minute 15,” he said.

How the eff?

“Ten seconds to go,” he called out. And I turned that skipping rope around and around like nobody’s business. I collapsed into a lawn chair, bent over and wheezing.

Then, two minutes later, he said, “Okay, go for it again. Two more minutes. Two minutes on, two minutes off.”

“No! I can’t do it!” I was practically crying. He cajoled me into it anyway, the way only little brothers can. And don’t listen to what anyone says, the second two minutes were even worse.

“Once more,” he called out after I’d caught my breath.

“This is so much harder than Mary’s birth!”

Somehow, stumbling and sputtering, I made it through three two-minute sets of jump rope. That’s a total of six minutes of exercise and I was spent. I couldn’t believe it.

But the next day I felt better and stronger than I have in a very long time. I practically ran Mary up the eight stories to her babysitter. I brought huge baskets of laundry up and down stairs, carried the four-year-old down the street and pulled up really big weeds with my bare hands. Maybe there was something to this skipping business after all.

A couple days later I strapped on some running shoes and ducked out into the backyard before bed. How great was this? I only needed a few square feet of space and a ten minute window of time.

I started skipping and marveled at how much easier it already felt. I kept going. Huh. Why was the timer not going off? I tripped over the rope and took a peak. Still a full minute to go. Okay! Fine! Let’s do this thing!

So I kept jumping up and down and up and down very, very quickly. I was jumping over and over again. And I’ve had three babies. And I guess I need to Kegel more than I do because by the time I hit the one minute mark, very small amounts of pee were leaking out with every landing. Really, they weren’t even drops. They were like droplets of pee. And I only tell you this because maybe you’ll want to grab a panty liner before you give this a shot. I am thinking of you!

So, whatever, it was fine. I kept on going and finally the two minute buzzer went off. I caught my breath and did some stretches and BOOM, it went off again. Time to skip. Maybe it was the shoes or that I was jumping on patio stones rather than a wooden deck this time, but my feet immediately started to seize up. I kept going. I was fumbling and tripping even more now on my cramped-up feet. But I kept going, glad for the cloak of darkness and glad that no neighbours were out.

That’s about when the built-in bra top of my sundress decided it had enough and my right breast burst forth for a breath of cool night air.

TWO MORE MINUTES.

That’s right. I hopped and jerked and wrenched my body up and down for another two entire minutes. My feet were completely seized up and there was a constant drip-drop of urine onto my already soaked underwear. And, yes, my right breast continued to break free of its restraint and salute the night over and over again. But I did it and it was glorious.

I might even do it again one day.

Image source.