jump |jəmp|verb1 [ intrans. ] to push oneself off a surface and into the air by using the muscles in one’s legs and feet : the cat jumped off his lap |he jumped twenty-five feet to the ground.
This is an RFJ (right-footed jump).
I’ve become a pro at what I like to call “left-footed jumping” (LFJ for all you acronym lovers) but which most people refer to as “hopping.” Need to reach a lemon high up in a tree? LFJ. Super excited about something to the point where I don’t care that I look like a child, Mario doing a fist pump, or a character from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? LFJ. Imitating anybody with two functional feet? L Freakin’ J.
From glancing at my CT scans, one can quickly discern that I have not landed — in the most forceful sense of the word — on my right foot in five years (I have osteoporotic bone despite how much cheese and yogurt I consume. Friendly recommendation: listen to your doctors and engage in weight-bearing exercise if you are able). If the corollary of “what goes up must come down” holds true, then I have not jumped in five years.
Activities I miss:
-jumping to grab things
-jumping in sports/any athletic endeavor
-jumping on a trampoline
-jumping to express excitement
-jumping in front of someone to scare them (this “someone” is usually my beloved brother)
-jumping for the sake of jumping
-jumping while dancing; more specifically, jumping while dancing to this song:
The fact that I haven’t jumped in five years is, to quote my buddies Kriss Kross, “wiggity, wiggity, wiggity whack.”
Ok, I think you’ve all heard enough about pain. I’m going to give that four-letter word a little vacation…if not in real life then at least in the blogosphere.
My accident occurred five years ago. Not on the dot. Not even in the month of September. But it happened half a decade ago. Of course, I know the exact date. And you probably do too if you’ve been following this blog since Day 1 (major props if you have and you aren’t my mom).
Most anniversaries, be they of upbeat occasions or mournful ones, are observed on a specific day. You got married on July 5th. Your grandfather passed away on January 23rd. Today is your birthday.
Of course, there is often an extension of the celebration or grieving: you just got married and now you’re jetting off to Jakarta for your honeymoon. You lost a loved one and you’re formally mourning for a year; informally mourning forever. But specific dates trigger extra excitement or forlornness. Do you forget your birthday? Your wedding anniversary? The day of a tragedy? (September 11th, for one, will never let us forget that horrific day).
I didn’t realize that five years had passed since my accident until about five days after the exact date. On August 27th, I glanced at the calendar, looked at what I had done five days prior, and was impressed that I had carried on as usual. With some pride, I evaluated how far I’d come in the coping realm and got back to whatever I had been doing.
Beat the light.
But here and there I feel a hole, a sadness. I watch someone sprint down a crosswalk to make a light and realize I haven’t made that seemingly pedestrian move in over five years.
For the next week, I will observe the anniversary of my accident by writing about all of the things I haven’t done in five years. Please join me on this journey.