This One's For Those Who Go Without

I never owned a trampoline as a child. My mother was very anti-commercialism, anti-sexism, anti-processed-foodism, anti-anti-feminism...well, you get the idea. That means my sister and I lived in a world where the word "Barbie" was only whispered in a reverent hush when my mom wasn't in the room, I snuck Chef Boyardee ravioli from my friend Melissa's house, and I discovered my first Hostess Donette Gem when I was in my teens and then proceeded to have dreams about Hostess baked goods well into adulthood. Could we have been Amish and I was never told?

Trampolines were completely off limits in our yard. We weren't the "backyard play set" kind of people; you know, aesthetics. Nonetheless, many of my friends had tramps and those memories dominate most of my childhood adventures. We made tramp games, we tanned on the tramp, we had sleepovers on the tramp, we met boys on the tramp, and in high school my friend Lindsay and I jumped on the tramp in our underwear...in the daytime...Oh, tramps oozed danger and excitement. The aerial feats we created were a spectacle. Back in the day, we seemed made of rubber, or at least silicone, and I never got hurt.

Like so many other areas of my life, when I got married and had kids, I systemically went about righting all the wrongs my mother did me as child. Libby has 25 Barbies, I stock Hostess in the pantry for my son's school lunch treat, and we have a tramp AND a swing set in our backyard. HA! So the next thing you need to know about me is that I never back down from a challenge. I am stubborn in a way that surprises even me sometimes. This has led Brandon and me to having countless competitions. I mean real competitions. Once we argued over who was faster as well as who had better endurance - so we had a race in the neighborhood and established he wins for initial speed but I have better longevity. Once we argued over who was better at tennis - so we got a sitter, went to The Sports Mall, and played a pretty ugly match until I finally succumbed. We've had dive-offs at the pool, H.O.R.S.E. championships at the hoop, races on four-wheelers; you get the point, I never back out of a challenge or dare even when I know I'm at a disadvantage. My mom never gave me a Malibu Barbie, but be damn sure she gave me a healthy sense of ego and pride!

So last year, when I was a young, vibrant 30, Brandon challenged me to a tramp-off at his mom's house after Sunday dinner. He bet that he could do any stunt I could do and do it better. So, I pulled out the flip (he did it), the toe-touch (he did it) and the pike (check). Well, Brandon, while a loving husband, is the most competitive person I know when it comes to games and sports. He'll school our kids in Go Fish simply because he refuses to lose. Nice. Anyway, Brandon knows my one tramp weakness - the back-flip. I hate back-flips. Something about reversing your motion and arching backwards scares me to death. In the aforementioned dive-off, I could do an Inward Dive (he can't) but I had to draw the line at the back-flip off the diving board. So, ever the gentleman, Brandon busted a perfect back-flip on the tramp, landed it, and then stood staring at me with a smile on his face. With complete pride I tell you that I jumped in place on that tramp for a solid ten minutes, sweating, before I forced myself to shut my eyes and hurl my head backwards. It was ugly, poor form, but I did it! YES! His family cheered and I did it a few more times for good measure.

Yesterday our friends Zach and Katie dropped by to visit. We ended up in the yard with the kids and started talking about the tramp. Brandon proclaimed, "Remember how you can't do a back-flip?" Flames crawled up my face. How could he be so horrible as to either a) lie and effectively spark my challenge gene, or b) forget a watershed moment in our relationship when I rose to the challenge and freakin' delivered? So, up I went on the tramp. I cursed at him the entire time as I started my ritual of ten minutes of jumping and planning my move. Katie laughed and encouraged me on (she's a great friend - better friend than Brandon) while the boys taunted. As Katie laid out instructions and positive reinforcement, Brandon chided me to give up and surrender. "Never!" I said. "I'll only stop if you admit I did a back-flip last year!" Nothing. On I went.

In the end, it was ugly. I finally felt the rush and threw my head back, only to chicken-out at the last second. Crucial tramp advice: You have to commit to your move or you're dead meat. I basically did a back-DIVE into the tramp and landed on my head - squarely. It hurt like crazy and I think I saw some stars, but I am a fool so I stood up and attempted it two more times - all with the same result; a head-plant straight into the tramp and a dull sting ricocheting down my vertebrae. Katie, of course, added insult to injury by standing up and blasting out a back-flip, aerial, and one-and-a-half. Thanks, K.

By late last night, I had lost all motion in my neck. I can only turn it to the left if I turn my whole torso with it. I have shooting pains down my back and I've been gulping Advil every six hours. I had a terrible night of sleep and had to bow out of yoga. Brandon, of course, thinks all this is hilarious and keeps re-enacting the sight of my reverse head plant. He also keeps reminding me of my age and my stupid stubborn ego that gets me in trouble on a regular basis. I am shamed and bruised, but don't close the curtain on me yet. Will I go out there, when healed, and attempt the illusive move again, if challenged? Need you ask?

Now, who out there thinks they can eat more donuts than I?