The masses have no clue what's in store for them. Suddenly, because of a series of voluntary actions, the cruel forces of gravity take control of everything. Chests heave, asses jiggle and one's body is exposed to a limit only short of nudity. Any rudiments of fat, obesity and paunches that one had effectively lost or hidden under tactful layer of clothes gain the attention of onlookers. Oh god! He's skipping!
I don't disavow it. There is something distinctly wrong with the whole sport. Some want to deny this activity even a membership of the sports club. The root of its problem lies it its actions (Karma, if that helps) - there are no limits to break. Take for instance the game of cricket. A batsmen can whack the ball to distances unbound by the field; Oooh..nice shot! While skipping, I genuinely can't do much. I can skip. I can skip faster. A bit smoother. That's about it.
There is a putative belief that Skipping is for the opposite sex. The moment one tries to mobilize and move with the rope in some direction, the action becomes distinctly girlish. Girl hops. Man runs. Girl giggles. Man growls. Girl skips. Man doesn't. Masculinity melts away when one's wrists flick a curvy rope in a smooth curvy action over one's head while the legs snootily ignore the oncoming rope and gently hop over it. I am proceeding in a direction, looking distinctly unintelligent. As if I missed the early classes of 'How to Walk' and am destined to reach places using this dysfunctional stride.
I might be in a really bad mood. But while repeatedly jumping up and down, I am sending out strong signals of joy. Yipee ! I screwed up my viva. Some of the inquisitive neighbours choose that very moment for a bout of small talk. 'Why are you doing this ?' 'Ha Ha. Abe you are looking ****' 'Hmm...If all you wanted to do was jump a thousand times, and really go nowhere, then what's the rope for ?' And as my brain struggles with the two actions of jumping and not-tripping, I am unable to come up with the right zinger. So I do what I think I do best. Skip.
I don't disavow it. There is something distinctly wrong with the whole sport. Some want to deny this activity even a membership of the sports club. The root of its problem lies it its actions (Karma, if that helps) - there are no limits to break. Take for instance the game of cricket. A batsmen can whack the ball to distances unbound by the field; Oooh..nice shot! While skipping, I genuinely can't do much. I can skip. I can skip faster. A bit smoother. That's about it.
There is a putative belief that Skipping is for the opposite sex. The moment one tries to mobilize and move with the rope in some direction, the action becomes distinctly girlish. Girl hops. Man runs. Girl giggles. Man growls. Girl skips. Man doesn't. Masculinity melts away when one's wrists flick a curvy rope in a smooth curvy action over one's head while the legs snootily ignore the oncoming rope and gently hop over it. I am proceeding in a direction, looking distinctly unintelligent. As if I missed the early classes of 'How to Walk' and am destined to reach places using this dysfunctional stride.
I might be in a really bad mood. But while repeatedly jumping up and down, I am sending out strong signals of joy. Yipee ! I screwed up my viva. Some of the inquisitive neighbours choose that very moment for a bout of small talk. 'Why are you doing this ?' 'Ha Ha. Abe you are looking ****' 'Hmm...If all you wanted to do was jump a thousand times, and really go nowhere, then what's the rope for ?' And as my brain struggles with the two actions of jumping and not-tripping, I am unable to come up with the right zinger. So I do what I think I do best. Skip.
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