My work-out routine sometimes include rope jumping. These days I must feel particularly perky to include it, but every now and then, I can still skip a rope. I was once a pretty decent rope jumper. As an adult, it's been the solo, single rope, gym style skipping, you know-like boxers. As a kid, it was a game. A group activity. A cult. We jumped Double Dutch.
In my neighborhood, well, neighborhoods-we moved often-Double Dutch rope jumping was a rite of passage. it was the ticket to acceptance. It was the recipe for survival. There were two camps, jumpers and turners. No one wanted to turn. If a jumper didn't jump well, the fault was on the turner-not the jumper. Some of the girls were beyond extreme about jumping.
My daughter never learned how to jump Double Dutch. Rope jumping, in this fashion, was not in fashion during her youth, and as such she wasn't interested in learning. Today, she regrets having let the opportunity pass, as I often speak of the experience fondly, in the same way I speak of paddle balling.
Paddling is wonderfully fun and relaxing.
I bought a new paddle ball recently. I haven't had one for several years now, as they are hard to find. I re-discovered the rhythm fairly quickly.
I adore my paddle, my Roxanne, Foxy Roxy. She is sturdy. She is responsive. She is kind. Much to my delight, Dani wants to learn to paddle. She's been practicing like crazy, hoping to match or surpass my paddle prowess.
She may, one day, but not anytime soon.