I'm Actually 12
I know you suspected, but it probably feels good to have it confirmed.
I recently had the opportunity to jump in a bunch of bounce houses – thereby fulfilling years of heartfelt, wistful dreaming.
Don't play dumb. You know what I'm talking about. Don't you feel that...that URGE, that overwhelming, maddening ITCH to shove the little kids aside and start jumping yourself every time you see one of those bounce houses set up at some 6-year-old's birthday party?
Needless to say, when I was offered the opportunity to partake of those forbidden delights – in not one, not two, but EIGHT different bounce houses – of course I accepted.
We went to the place where the bounce houses live. I asked the bemused, exclusively teenaged staff how many adult groups they've hosted. They stared at me with dazed bovine eyes and finally drawled, "Uhhh...like...none." All right then. If they expected me to feel shame, they obviously have never gotten between me and a juvenile pastime.
After a wait that seemed to stretch on for eternity, we were finally loosed upon the bounce houses...only to discover that, like, we're old. Really old. Ancient. Elderly groaning bone wheezing breath flailing flab senior citizens. 'Cuz the bouncing? It sucked. A whole lot.
It turns out I have about five good minutes of bouncing in me, and then I desire nothing more than a cold drink and long nap.
2 comments:
They must not have had the ones with the huge slides. Because the bouncing? Sucks. The 25 foot slide? Well, it kinda rocks.
They had the big slide. And I went down it many many times. But the bounce house itself was kind of old, and the banner thing that hangs across the slide was drooping just enough that it would catch an overgrown child-type (but not an actual child) right at neck-level, for maximum choke-age. I really thought it was going to strangle me if I wasn't careful.
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