Hoop Dreams

Remember hula hoops?

No? Come on out to San Francisco; they're all the rage among the pot-smokers and dread-heads.

I was never much of a hula-hooper. I wasn't very good at it, for one, and I also didn't see much point in standing in one place swiveling my hips to keep a plastic ring in motion. Of course, some of the hoopers out here are way more talented than that. They hoop over their heads and their arms and step in and out of their spinning orbs. When you've got the spare time to practice all day in the park, anything's possible, right?

Anyway, Tiffany and I came upon a street fair a few days ago, and there were hula hoops just lying around for anyone to use. I have to admit, I was tempted. So tempted, in fact, that I picked one up and stepped into it. As soon as I began gyrating, I felt bad for all the times I'd made fun of the pot-smoking and dread-headed hula hoopers. It really is fun. And kind of relaxing.

Tiffany was mortified.

"Oh my god, let's go!" she said, as people passed by pushing their children in strollers and licking ice cream cones. "Everyone's staring at you!"

"Come on! It's fun!"

"No way," she said. "I'm not hula hooping!"

I kept swiveling. It was surprising how good I was.

"Babe, no one is looking at me. Everyone's looking at her!"

Still gyrating, I pointed to a woman with wild bushy hair in a purple sweatsuit. She looked like she'd been hula hooping for several hours... or years.

I could have hooped a lot longer. But, in an amazing demonstration of support for my new-found talent, Tiffany started walking away from me. My choice was clear: her or hula.

"How about some ice cream?" I cried, stepping out of my hoop to chase after her.