I wasn't sure I was ready to dust off my Pogo Stick and jump rope. After all, I had just had Rotator Cuff surgery in December.
But I listed that skill on my audition sheet for the Hunchback of Notre Dame. If I get cast it will undoubtedly be because of my Pogo Stick prowess.
Certainly not because of my vocals.
On top of that I had to open my big fat mouth to Keela. Now, apparently, I'm performing at a United Way talent show at work.
I wasn't even sure I could still do it. My friend George told me that if I 'used to could' jump rope on a Pogo Stick', I probably could still do it.
That's easy for him to say.
I told Dave about my conundrum and he flat out told me that I was getting too old for such nonsense.
"What?" I was appalled and insulted. "I used to be really good at it."
George's voice echoed in my head. I used to could jump rope on a Pogo Stick.
What if my jump rope Pogo Sticking days were over?
There was only one way to tell. I grabbed my Pogo Stick from the closet and headed through the kitchen.
"What if you get hurt?" Dave asked.
"What could possibly happen?" I responded. I was really starting to get annoyed with him. I opened the back door, Pogo Stick in hand, ready to take the leap.
Seriously. How could I get hurt jump roping on a Pogo Stick? I just had to make sure I maintained sufficient height so the jump rope didn't catch on the bottom of the Pogo Stick.
Because, of course, if that happened, the jump rope would pull the Pogo Stick backward, which would launch me forward. And cause me to land on my face. On the driveway. Re-injuring my shoulder. Or breaking my wrist. Or my neck. And I'd have to call to Dave for help.
"Do you have your button?" Dave hollered to me.
I reopened the door. "What????"
"Your I've fallen and I can't get up button....do you have it?"
"You are hysterical. Not." I slammed the door.
I looked at my Pogo Stick. It had never let me down. Not when I was performing at that Gong show in the '80s. Not when I did my shtick at Kimmy's Kindergarten class in 1993. And certainly not in front of sold-out audiences at 15 damn performances of Gypsy seven years ago.
I picked up my jump rope and rested it on my shoulders. I climbed aboard my trusty Pogo Stick and began to hop. Higher and higher. I used my knees to hold the Pogo Stick upright, grabbed the jump rope and began to swing it.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
I dismounted and parked my Pogo Stick, resting the jump rope over the handle.
I limped into the house screaming, "DAVE!!!! HELP! I NEED ICE! AND BAND AIDS. LOTS OF THEM."
Dave raised his eyebrow.
I had something to celebrate.