Ever since I found out about a nearby “Indoor Trampoline Park,” I was down like a rodeo clown.

Unfortunately, none of my local friends wanted to go with me. Which was confusing, because: indoor trampoline park!


(Photo from The Gazette)

But then I mentioned it to my BFF Noemi in Chicago and she was all, “YOU HAD ME AT THE WORD TRAMPOLINE.” Which is exactly why we’re BFFs. We decided we’d go when she came to visit for my 28th birthday.

We stood in the ticket line Saturday night debating whether to buy 90 minutes of jump time or 120. (We had immediately ruled out the 60 minute option, because come on). We settled on 90.

After jumping for approximately three minutes, we were so exhausted we could no longer stand. Also, I started experiencing intense shooting pains through my heart.

We stepped off the trampolines for a while to chug water and observe the jumpers around us, who were mostly teenagers effortlessly performing triple back flips.

“Is everyone else here a professional gymnast or something?” Noemi asked.

“Right? I thought people just came here to have fun. I didn’t realize it was a training ground for the fucking Olympic team.”

Then we bitterly contemplated the amazing, flexible, teenage sex they all must be having with each other.

We eventually resumed jumping, taking a break every two minutes to pant, clutch our hearts in agony, and stare at the clock/wonder how it was possible that time was moving so slowly.

At one point I collapsed on the trampolines and became extremely fixated on my desire to eat a big pretzel with melted cheese. I suddenly wanted this more than I’d ever wanted anything. Like, if someone had emerged right then holding a pretzel with melted Velveeta and said, “You can have this, but in return I will have to murder all your friends and family,” I totally would have devoured that pretzel in three seconds flat and licked the cheese cup dry. (When I sauntered to the snack bar and realized they only sold potato chips, I think I literally turned red with fury. I wanted to cut someone).

Later, we got stuck in a big pit of foam cubes. Trying to crawl our way out of that ate up about twenty five minutes. Which was fine by me.

After we’d been jumping for one hour, we figured we could justify leaving. And, you know, just donate the rest of those minutes we paid for to the establishment to thank them for an excellent time.

“Yep,” I said as we collapsed, gasping for air, into my car. “We still got it.”

“Oh totally,” Noemi said, panting. “We crushed it out there.”

“Hashtag totes crushed it, hashtag still got it,” I said, reaching for a bag of mint Milanos from the back seat and stuffing them in my face as though they were capable of restoring oxygen to my lungs.

“I don’t know about you, but I feel totally refreshed,” Noemi said, turning up the AC full blast and pressing her lips and eyelids against the vents.

“Completely!” I said, spitting cookie crumbs. “I wouldn’t mind doing this every day before work.”

As we pulled out of the lot, we passed a cop car.

“I bet someone called the cops on us because we were killing it out there,” I said.

“Yeah,” Noemi said. “Or for burning the place to the ground.”


Take that, 28.