What does that mean ? 
Dis you never jump off the swings as a youngâun?
I have a quite vivid memory of landing after a particularly high launch and accidentally biting my tongue as I hit the ground.
Tongues bleed a LOT, but heal up shockingly fast.
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I used to dismount swings with frontflips and backflips.
Kids be cray
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Is that what that means? Maybe I did and thatâs why I donât remember! I donât really remember many swings at all! 
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Oh, look at Ms. Olympic Gymnast over here! 
Even on those little gym trampolines and all the landing pads, I NEVER managed to land any sort of flip, forward OR backward.
Even in my attempts off the high dive at the public pool, I never really was able to get in a full rotation. Always landed on my back with a huge splash.
Bahahaha, well â I was an avid swimmer & diver as a kid. I would spend hours diving off the one-meter board trying to perfect my flips. You know, when youâre so focused that the life guard has to tell you your lips are blue & you should maybe take a break 
I even got pretty good at 1.5 flips (forward only). A summer a few years ago, trying a 1.5 was my season project. I finally got my ish together and did a perfect one. Naturally, I had to do it again. Full back landing, and that was that. Havenât tried it since.
Actually to the best of my knowledge only 3 swings of that type are available in Sri Lanka. Iâve seen 2 of them owned by the same company who have imported the whole thing, not made in Sri Lanka. They even bring down the harnesses from UK. One of my guests was a large size lady who really wanted to do it. But they rejected the request as they didnât have the right size harness. Although the harnesses they had were sufficient they said the safety instructionsâ specs recommended a bit longer. They said that the harness with right length required for her waist, according to the instructions, was not yet there. The swings too are very solid structures. 
Meant if you happen to lose the grip and launched into the air by accident. But these giant swings have straps that bind you to the seat perfectly well.
I can never ride a swing sitting, get nauseated, I can ride swings standing, I can ride the full circle, but if I sit, that ends the fun. lol. Itâs same about reading anything while travelling in a vehicle. I get a headache even if I read a telephone number.
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I feel like that.
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I fully endorse this idea.
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Since having a child I get horrible vertigo on swings. It comes and goes, weirdly.
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But what if there is no one there to hear the scream?
What about the trees? 
Wooden listen.
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Oooh! Nice one.
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Why are people jumping the gun with 2025 threads on Dec 29th?
They want to be FIRST!!!
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Here are the top rated weekly entries by readers of my favorite daily (weekdays only) column about life in NYC:
The Winner:
âBenchedâ
Dear Diary:
I was in the habit of taking walks in Carl Schurz Park on early summer mornings, when the sun cast a lovely orange glow over the quiet East River esplanade.
My walk was identical every day. What also became routine was seeing the same older man sitting on the same bench each morning. He held a flat tweed cap in his hands, always gazing wistfully out onto the water.
One morning, I decided to talk to him.
âHello,â I said, approaching the bench where he was sitting.
He looked up.
âHow do you do?â he said.
âI donât mean to bother you, but I see you here every day,â I said.
âIs that right?â he said.
âAnd if you donât mind me asking, I was curious why you sat on this same bench?â
He turned away with a deep sigh.
âMy wife and I used to sit on this bench together for 51 years,â he said.
âOh,â I said, feeling badly. âIâm sorry.â
âAnd for some bizarre reason she likes to sit over there now,â he said, gesturing toward a woman 20 feet to the left of us.
Submitted by Samuel Willinger
The Finalists:
âSausage and Peppersâ
Dear Diary:
On a summer Sunday when I was living on 56th Street behind Carnegie Hall, I ran the loop in Central Park and then returned home on Sixth Avenue.
A typical summer street fair was being set up on the avenue, and an Italian sausage truck was positioned at 58th Street.
âGreat,â I thought. I love Italian sausage sandwiches.
I returned to the truck at about 1 p.m., bought one, took it back to my apartment and thoroughly enjoyed it.
At about 4 p.m., I decided to treat myself to another. When I got to the truck, there was a man ahead of me who had just ordered and was waiting for his sandwich.
I ordered one, and while I waited, the counterman brought the man in front of me his and he began eating.
When my sandwich arrived, it was huge, with easily twice the amount of sausage, peppers and onions as before.
As I started eating, I noticed the other man looking at my sandwich, then at his sandwich, then at mine again. Finally, he looked at the counterman.
âWhat gives?â he said. âWhyâs mine so small?â
âOh,â the counterman answered without hesitating, âheâs a regular.â
Submitted by William L. Clayton
âSlightly Wornâ
Dear Diary:
Some years ago, I worked in the management office at a clothing store on Madison Avenue. Our policy was that menâs suits could be returned within a specified time limit provided they hadnât been altered or showed signs of wear like pulled threads or frayed material.
One summer day, a man walked in with a garment bag slung over his arm. He said he wanted to return a suit that had been bought 10 days earlier. He gave the receipt to the cashier, who unzipped the garment bag and called for me to come downstairs.
When I got to the counter, I took the gray pinstriped suit out of the bag and hung it on a hook for inspection. It didnât appear worn, but it did seem a bit grimy and dirty, almost as though whoever had worn it had been rolling around in a flower bed.
âDid you purchase this suit for yourself?â I asked the man.
âNo,â he replied. âA manager in my company purchased the suit. I am the courier.â
âWhat company do you work for?â
He gave me a business card for a funeral home in the Bronx.
My eyes widened as I conjured up all the possible purposes for which this grimy-looking suit could have been purchased. Realizing we would have to thoroughly clean it before trying to resell it, I told the man that we couldnât give him a refund but would offer a store credit.
âBut itâs only been worn once,â he said.
Submitted by Eric W. Stotter
âEast 37th Streetâ
Dear Diary:
Janet became my best friend in fall 1968. We met in fifth grade at the St. Vincent Ferrer school on East 65th Street. She was a transfer student from a school in Murray Hill that was closing because of low enrollment.
We were both only children. My mother worked outside the home. Janetâs mother did not. So we would take the bus to her home on East 37th Street after school.
It was a magical place for me: a first-floor garden apartment where we could play outside and in Janetâs beautiful bedroom. It felt like a real home.
As we grew up, Janet was on track to become an actress. I vividly recall the day her father took us to a shoot for âThe Godfather,â in which Janet had a part.
Janet died of leukemia a few months later, and over the years her friends, including me, made a point of walking by East 37th Street whenever we were in the area.
Fast forward to 2022. I had lived in different parts of New York City over the years and most recently at my motherâs home in Connecticut. I sold the house after my mother died and was able to rent in the city once again.
I looked at many apartments, until one day a certain East 37th Street address came up on my computer. I was shown an amazing, newly renovated, light-filled apartment on the fourth floor in the front of the building.
I had to interview with the apartmentâs owner. He listened quietly as I explained my connection to the building. I expected to leave and hear his decision at a later date. That is not what happened.
âWelcome home,â he said immediately.
Submitted by Dayna Gerring
âThat Was Quickâ
Dear Diary:
In May 1978, I and several other Cornell students traveled to Manhattan for interviews with prospective employers. After the interviews, we needed to get back to Port Authority to catch a bus back upstate.
I decided to show off my worldliness by confidently hailing a cab. We piled in, and I directed the driver to take us to Port Authority.
âPort Authority?â he asked.
âPlease,â I replied.
He stared at me for a moment, drove the cab about 20 yards and pulled over.
âHere you go!â he announced.
I was thoroughly embarrassed.
âWhatâs the charge?â I asked meekly.
âNothingâ he said. âIt was worth it for the entertainment.â
Submitted by George Lutz
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