April 21, 2005
had a close friend in middle and high school that my mother used to term ‘contrary.’ My friend was, mom says, consistently compelled to reject anything generally approved of or embraced by people, not because she had a particular opinion one way or the other, but simply because she was contrary.
I think I border on that when it comes to choosing activities in life. Too many people, in this city, at least, climb or bike or knit or whatever is the mode, and so I am left adrift.
I thought I’d found solace in at least one minor interest: hula-hooping. No one hula-hoops, I reasoned. When fiancé bought one a couple of months ago and insisted I try it, I balked, citing my absolute disability in the matter. But I found that suddenly, after twenty-seven years of being alive, I am able to hoop.
All was well until I realized there are what Mike terms “crystal-gripping hippies” out there who have decided that the hoop represents something drippy and spiritual. Holistic hoping, energy, ohm. Whatever.
Here are a few moments of hooping before I give it up in a fit of pique.