The other night, I attended an open school night for one of the places we may be sending T next year. I was sitting next to a friend of mine, and amidst the talk of class projects and school philosophies, we kind of stopped paying attention, and started talking about the things we were doing during the week. She then told me that she was going to be attending an adult gymnastics class the following night. Until that point, neither of us had known about the other's, uh, Gymnast Past, but she told me that one of our other friends—who also used to be a gymnast-—was going to the class with her, and she told me to come, too. I had trained as a gymnast for over seven years (and it is a total coincidence—I swear—that I mentioned it the other day). It was a huge part of my life for such a long time, and, well, an honest-to-god talent that I kind of gave up on, once I hit high school and had no time to keep it up.
I proceeded to spend the next 24 hours excitedly bouncing around, and mentally picking out my outfit for class. I had these grand plans of donning creepy-ass American Apparel-type workout gear, but when the time came, I actually began thinking STRATEGICALLY, which is perhaps the most pathetic admission I’ve made in recent memory. I told myself about how it was time to Focus and Get Serious about my Craft, and so I put on a sensible gymnastics outfit, one that was short on charm, but long on practicality: sports bra, black tank, and black capri yoga pants. No hot pink skintight AmApp harem pants for me.
Sometimes, I feel like such a disappointment.
We arrived at the class, nervous and excited, and immediately began expending our nervous excitement by essentially harassing the tiny teenage gymnasts who were on their way out, staring at us curiously. It was bad, by which I mean, we LITERALLY SAID things like “we used to be good, tooooooo! Enjoy your talent while you cannnnnn!” Under the guidance of our teacher, we stretched, did some basic tumbling, and then we began actually attempting to do our old tricks, and half-jokingly-yet-not-really performing portions of our old routines. It became clear that letting 15 years elapse since your last gymnastics session—-while inevitably painful the next day--does not, in fact, kill the muscle memory required to execute a back handspring. We all had a fantastic time, and unanimously decided to return this week, and it was right around this time that I realized this could totally be a TV show.
Think about it: Take a bunch of aging former gymnasts-- definitely past their prime, but still talented-- and place them in a competitive reality-type show, wherein we attempt to regain our flexibility, relearn our (DATED) routines, and maybe, just maybe, fit into our old competition leotards once again. I’m not quite sure what the winner would get (toaster full of cash from Crate & Barrel?), or who would serve as judges (Dream Team: Mary Lou Retton, Bela Karolyi, Bobby Knight), but I do believe the show will be called Backflipping the Clock. Although I'm totally, TOTALLY open to suggestions.
(Come on, you’d watch it, right?)