Confession: I’m a killer jump roper.
No really, in my more agile days, I had mad skills. Not playground skills. Borderline obsessive practice-three-hours-a-day-for-ten-years, skills. Competition skills, perform in Disney World skills.
Jump rope defined my childhood. It sent me on my first international travels, taught me how to work my ass off for something, and possibly ruined my ankles for life. (All was worth it, by the way.)
That said, getting to jump rope with some awesome kids at the children’s center the other day was, hands down, one of my top five Lao moments.
They put me to shame. My skills, nurtured by a coach, in an air-conditioned gym, wearing expensively supportive sneakers, have got nothing on theirs.
Pu, who’s ten, picked up a rope, kicked off his sandals, and busted a move on the gravel in the oppressive midday heat. He was shocked at his own abilities and, drenched in sweat, spent the next hour perfecting them.
So, confession: When I was 8-years-old my lifelong goal was to be a jump rope coach.
Confession: That may just still be my dream.