We never called it "jumping rope." Instead, very sensibly, we called it "jump-roping."
By "we" I mean the kids at my tiny middle school.
And I do mean tiny. Weensy. There was only one classroom per grade. It was so small that even someone as dedicated as myself was not able to fully maintain recluse status. In fact I think those years were the most social interaction I've ever had, before or since. Not that that's saying much. Mostly I kept to myself, because that was what I w.a.n.t.e.d. and that degree of determination can't be entirely thwarted. But there were a couple of occasions where I found myself doing stuff with other humans. Like jump-roping.
Every time I sit down at the keyboard, I see the dirty rope smacking the asphalt. Even if only in the background, it's there. It's there as I open up all the documents I'm working on, poise my fingers above the keys, and start reading my way back into them. It's all about knowing when to jump. You have to wait...wait...wait...there!
And if you misjudge your moment, everything gets tangled up.
