A Hop, Skip, and a Jump

This morning, while I was at work, a large contingent of young children and their teachers gathered on the lawn outside the windows of my office.  The group was apparently waiting for their ride back to school, and to pass the time, the enterprising teachers engaged the children in relay races.

My friends and I were drawn to the spectacle of the children racing.  Their spindly arms and legs flew in every direction.  They took turns hopping, jumping, skipping, running, and crocodile crawling across the lawn.  The children, while waiting their turn to race, jumped up and down, wildly cheering on their teammates. You would have thought a gold medal was at stake. 

Their enthusiasm was infectious.  At some point, I remarked to one of my office mates that I could not remember the last time I had hopped or skipped.  She kind of laughed, and suggested that I refrain from doing so until I was out of range of the office.  The logical side of me agreed, while the cantankerous side of me wanted to go hopping right across the open work space.  Logic won out.

All day, I thought about those carefree children, hopping, skipping and jumping as though their little lives depended on it.  And, all day, I thought about the joy their antics brought to them and to those of us who watched them. 

And, I also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I would find myself hopping, skipping and jumping at some point during this day.

After work, I headed to the local downtown park, where I tend to two gardens.  I weeded and planted flowers in anticipation of the scores of bicyclists who will gather there this weekend.  No hopping and skipping there.

Then, I delivered some homegrown strawberries to my parents and visited for a spell.  No hopping and skipping there.

When I arrived home, there were tools to put away, a bite of dinner to grab, and a little settling in to be accomplished. 

Rattling around in the back of my mind, however, was the whole skipping and hopping thing.  So, I quietly crept out the back door to the North Forty.  I began skipping, and skipped all the way to the end of the North Forty.  Upon arriving, I was a little breathless, but jubilant.

I turned around and began hopping back toward the house.  15 hops on one leg, 15 hops on the other leg, and then 15 jumps with both feet together.  I could hear the "Rocky" theme song thundering in my head by this time. 

Watching 8 year olds, weighing all of next to nothing, hop across a field is one thing. Doing so when you are a several decades past 8, and weighing a good deal more than nothing, is quite another. 

Halfway back to the house, I began doubting my sanity, but plunged onward, wheezing and snorting.  When I finally reached the end of the North Forty, I was seriously breathing, though I am a regular exerciser.  I felt great.  I felt, if not 8, then certainly 28.  I was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

As I entered the house, Better Half eyed me suspiciously from his perch, but said nothing.  I regained my calm demeanor fairly quickly and went quietly about my evening chores, all the while still feeling 8 on the inside.

If only for a few minutes, 8 was a quite good place to be. If someone had handed me a bouquet of balloons at that minute, I, no doubt, would have floated right up into the sky just like in the movie "Up".