Night of the Jumping Rope of Calf-Death

I bought a jump rope yesterday.

You might think this to be a statement of innocent, memory-lane-induced nostalgia, and this is understandable. After all, until tonight, I hadn't jumped-rope in easily 20 years. And while I admit that, yes, seeing the exact same blue, white, and red beaded jump ropes I used as a kid on Amazon.com made my heart flutter and my face nearly split in half with a toothy - yes, nostalgic - grin, my true purpose is health.

I've been needing to lose weight and get back into good shape for quite some time now. I haven't been trying nearly as long as the need has existed, of course. However, with my not-so recent heart problems and pure discomfort at my own body shape, I have recently become much more serious about it, and active. I am walking almost every week day after work, and eating better (though that could use some work, too). Not long ago, I read about the healthy, fitness-related benefits of jumping-rope, as they pertain to cardiovascular health (!) and the working of most of the body's muscles while jumping. Supposedly (I'm trying not to be too skeptical), jumping-rope for fifteen minutes burns the same number of calories as jogging five miles.

I'm all for getting similar results faster and - I thought - easier.

And so tonight I jumped-rope, my 31-year-old-body trying desperately to mimick the remembered ease, speed, and grace of my six-, seven-, or even eight-year-old jump-rope princess' moves. I'm lucky I didn't trip myself and fall on my face, rip my largely unused upper calf-muscles (a serious danger), whip myself in the face, or just pass out outright. It was only two sets of fifteen jumps and two sets of forty-five jumps, each set separated by recommended fifteen-second, wheezy, doubled-over breaks.

To say 31-Year-Old-Me is humbled - nay, licking her wounds - is a slight understatement. That rope owned me, that skinny bitch.

Six-Year-Old-Me facepalmed with heavy sighs and rolling eyes, attempting not to giggle and probably wishing she could take the rope and show me how it was done. 31YOM (hey, that's easier to type!) bows deeply, acknowledging her young Jumping Sensei's mastery.

Now I sit alternately relaxed(ish) and stretching my calves, which while not terribly painful yet, hold a deep and lengthening promise of achiness and awkward, wobbly, not-quite-walking-correctly movements tomorrow. The Skinny Bitch lies draped across the foot of the bed, all black and sleek and sexy, and I swear if a rope could grin maliciously, this one is leering at me. 

31YOM and 6YOM accept the challenge: "Bring it, you lanky, plastic hussy!" And so tomorrow brings Round Two.