I’ve never been to a trampoline park before because I prefer my groin muscles to be untorn. 

Recently, we took my friend Becca — she is 11 years old — to visit a trampoline park. Becca is blind, and going to a trampoline park is a lot of fun for her. 

“I love to bounce!” Becca pointed out six or seven thousand times. 

For the unbaptized, a trampoline park is a warehouse filled with dozens of trampolines and children who have consumed gallons of sugar and handfuls of barely legal stimulants disguised as “candy.” 

The first thing that happens when you enter the park is you get a pair of special socks with plastic grips on the bottoms. You will need to burn your socks after visiting the men’s room. 

There is also a concession area wherein eager children can buy caffeinated beverages, which the children dutifully spill on the floor. Sometimes, to save time, employees pour drinks onto the floor directly after purchase. The floor is caked in past Coke spills predating the Hoover administration. 

As a result, many adults waiting in this concession line are unable to move their feet because their special socks are permanently glued to the sticky pavement. I met one elderly man in line who said: “I’ve been stuck to this floor since my 30th birthday.” 

“Why don’t you just take off your socks and leave?”

“I’d rather die than go barefoot here,” he replied. 

Inside the park, dance music throbs at a loud volume whilst children run around, shrieking with glee. Usually, children are accompanied by middle-aged parents who look as though they have come directly from work. 

You can tell these adults are thrilled to be here by the faces they are wearing. It’s the same face you see while in line at your local adult correctional facility. 

For sanitation purposes, all equipment is monitored very closely. Remember, thousands of children use this equipment every month. Which is why after each trampoline use, each apparatus, which is covered in a visible layer of toe jam, is carefully inspected by highly-motivated teenage employees with spray bottles whose sole jobs are to send dirty text messages to their friends. 

So anyway, after we were given our special socks, we were instructed to read over the guidelines, practice safe jumping, sign death waivers, etc. 

Whereupon, it was time to bounce. 

This is a family park, so adults will want to make sure as they bounce they don’t accidentally shout four-letter words beginning with the nineteenth letter of the alphabet. Which is what I did. 

I stepped onto one of the trampolines, and in a moment, I was overtaken by a powerful momentum I could not control. I came crashing down onto the bouncy fabric, lost my balance and found myself hurtling toward other terrified bouncers who had recently discovered that they too were, in fact, past age 40. 

But the great part is, the children didn’t usually notice expletives spewing from the mouths of any nearby adults with newly torn knee cartilage. The children are too busy doing somersaults and demonstrating difficult backflips and shouting, “HEY MOM WATCH ME!” 

There was also a giant ball pit, filled with children and parents. I almost went into the ball pit until a nearby mother of five stopped me. 

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” she said. 

“Why not?” 

“Because. People get so worked up they accidentally pee their pants in there.” 

“You mean kids pee their pants in there?”

“No. I mean people.” 

All in all, Becca had a glorious time, bouncing, and twirling in the air with my wife, who is evidently undaunted by trampoline parks. “Wheeeeeee!” they both shouted in unison as my wife performed several cannonballs and Becca executed perfect helicopter moves. 

Meantime, I sat on the bench and watched them enjoy themselves. I was content to stay in my seat. Not only because I love watching children of all ages laugh and have fun. But because I was firmly glued to the bench.