If you told me six years ago that I would be one of those people you see in the park shamelessly hula hooping in a flesh-colored onesie, I would have said you were crazy. I wasn’t necessarily fat, but I had no muscle tone in my torso. I was a long, flabby ham dangling from a head, and it was exhausting.
But today, I am that person who celebrates her body through dance with a hula hoop in public as though it were a normal and acceptable thing, which it now is, to me specifically. Sure, some people say it’s attention-seeking hippie nonsense and should be illegal. But do I let the whispers and points and stares of incredulous strangers stop me? No, I do not. Do I let the small children who always want to come over and try hula hooping themselves try to stop me, even though I only brought one hoop and it’s for me? The answer is no; absolutely not (Come back when you have your own hoop!). Am I discouraged by the people who want to use the tennis court for tennis, even though I was here first and am now hula hooping? Hardly. Do I let the parks police slow me down when they issue a noise citation because I brought the big speakers to my one-person hula hoop dance party? Please. This is not my first hula hoop rodeo!
So how did I become the dynamic, expressive artist of the divine circle that I am today? I had finally reached a point where I could no longer ignore the thing that was missing from my life—which was the intuitive sense that hula hooping was an innately shameful activity to do in public. I realized I was wrong. I needed to step into my physical presence as a hula hooper to step into my life.
I tried swimming, but the weightlessness spooked me. I already felt like I had no substance—why make it worse? Running seemed too fear-based. Yoga wanted me to dissolve into a universal consciousness. I thought, No thanks. I was lost. I didn’t know where to turn.
And then one day I saw Marisa Tomei on TV hula hooping her way to fitness. A small bell make a clear pinging sound somewhere near my hippocampus, and I never went back. I googled “hula hoops” and within days, a white woman with dreadlocks and a business card that said “Gaia Peterson, Princess of Aliveness” was at my doorstep holding a hula hoop. I gave her money, and my life hasn’t been the same since.
Yes, it took me a long time to go from trying to keep the hoop up in the privacy of my own carpeted basement to being able to stand proudly in the bright sunlight, publicly sharing my dance with the world, whether they asked for it or not. Am I ashamed of myself? Not anymore. Pick up a business card if you like. My hula hooping name is Lady Swerve, and I am proud to say that I’m available for parties and lessons for a fair rate, or a rate that I think is fair given that in three months I’m going to quit my job and pursue hula hooping full-time.
Gratitude: Thank you for creating a safe space where I could share my journey. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go quick cry behind a tree. But I’ll be back in five minutes, ready to rock out to some Beats Antique.
