I Get an F in Being Six

Today at the gym my trainer attempting to have me work out like a ninja. As in, he actually said "just like a ninja" several times. There was one activity I actually recorded in my log as Leaping Diagonal Ninja Squats for lack of a better term. These were followed by repeatedly jumping into the air to land balanced on the edge of a box without making a single sound on landing (the successful completion of which earned me fifteen ninja points, redeemable for either one set of plastic nunchuks or a blood vendetta). Feeling relatively samurai-ish, my ego was promptly kamikazed as I was then cruelly forced to jump rope. Jump rope. And land lightly. Like a ninja.

I have vague recollections of jumping rope as a child. Unless I'm in one of those movies where aliens altered my memories (for the purpose, one assumes, of stealing my baby whose existence has been cleansed from my neuronal networks like puke from a onesie), I'm fairly certain I was somewhat adept at the skill. The operative there is apparently "was."

I mean, sure, today I could hop over the rope and whatnot. While it was lying on the floor. Okay, even a few times while it was swinging around my body like some kind of bullwhip. But when it came to hopping up and down in some funky diagonal pattern on one foot? Not so much.

Now excuse me while I go don black slipper socks and engage in mortal battle with a surprisingly spry old blind man while standing on a fence post.