Hula Girl

As if my life wasn’t already the height of ridiculousness, I’ve taken up hula-hooping. It just seemed like the kind of thing a retired person in her thirties should spend hours doing, so I decided to give it a shot.

And now I’m addicted. See, I sway back and forth when I stand for more than a minute or so anyway. Add a hula-hoop and I just look amusing (rather than, say, disturbed or mentally disabled). Honestly, I feel like I was born to hula-hoop. I can’t believe no one mentioned it earlier. In fact, when I told my mother I had started hula-hooping, she said “I used to do that for HOURS.” Good to know, since that’s where I got the swaying from to start off with. I’m having one made for Mom so we can swap tricks on Skype.

Not that I’ve got more than one trick, that is, unless dropping the hoop on the floor counts. For a girl who spends hours a day hooping, I’m not particularly good at it. And I’m OK with that, as it’s the first time I’ve had fun doing any kind of exercise. I’m not in a hurry to be an expert – what if it gets boring? How will I spend my time?

They say you can learn to hoop in 10 minutes (and by “they” I mean internet sites that promote hoops and hooping). I believe that most people can and do. Not me, though: it took me a determined few hours and a surprising amount of bruising considering this isn’t a contact sport. Physical intelligence has never been my strong suit. I’ve worked so hard to get every movement right, though, that I can teach people tricks in minutes that take me hours to learn. I considered thinking less of myself for this, but decided instead that I have a future in Hooping for Dummies books, CDs and videos – you know, in a few years when I know what I’m doing.

For me, learning new hooping skills is the kind of action adventure other people need to go bungee jumping to achieve. First of all, I bruise easily, so learning to hoop around the knees results in looks of horror and pity at the supermarket. Some concerned neighbor is going to send the police to rescue me from domestic violence. Alas, they will find only Gus the cat.

Or maybe they won’t. Early in my hooping history, Curiosity smacked Gus in the snout with a hoop, and he’s been skeptical ever since. For weeks he would skitter off upstairs whenever I started moving furniture or produced my hoop. That turned out to be more time upstairs than he was hoping for. Now he sits on the landing of the stairs and watches, which is smart of him as I don’t think a runaway hoop could reach him there.

And run away they do, often when you least expect it. I hoop in the house, because I prefer to listen to music while I do. The risk to appliances, windows and breakable décor just adds a frisson of danger to the undertaking. In an act of clear solidarity, the metal stick-figure cat in the living room lost a toe during a particularly violent hooping episode – on the same paw as MY broke-ass toe. The rule is, now, that all liquids must be around a corner or otherwise hidden / protected from flying hula-hoops. I made that rule after the first major liquid spill. When the second one happened, I hadn’t even started hooping yet; I have a talent even for leaning the hoop in the wrong place. The wording of the rule is under review to prevent further carpet stains.

I’d spend more time hooping if it didn’t get in the way of other activities. I can’t reach my computer keyboard while hooping, for example. I’m also no good at walking while hooping, which really puts a dent in one’s productivity. I’ll read on occasion, but this is not recommended for people prone to motion sickness. Hooping while watching television makes me feel simultaneously better about watching television and worse about hula hooping, neither of which is a welcome development. Instead, hooping is more like meditation – or an opportunity to think through a thorny problem from beginning to end.

I know I’ve got it bad. I’m sure eventually someone will need to take me aside and give me a stern talking to. When the time comes, I’ll try to listen. I know I’m not ready yet, because I was pretty disappointed when my friend suggested it was time for an intervention.

Already? But I only just started…

Telling Tales

I called my father early this week (about topics unrelated to flatulence, I assure you) and he told me this story:

“I was at this new pizza place having lunch, and I had gas. The music there was pretty loud, so I figured I could get away with it. Half an hour later, I’m feeling much better but, when I look around, everyone is staring at me. Then I realized I had my iPod on.”

“You did not!” I replied, giggling.

“No. I didn’t,” he confessed. “But it’s a good story.”

We Bramhalls adore a good story – the best kind being those we can tell on ourselves or our loved ones. And while we appreciate veracity, precise accuracy is optional; humor is king. One time my uncle tried to correct his mother’s telling of a well-worn family tale, and my grandmother waved him off, saying “don’t bother me with the facts; I’m telling a story!” This was an idea the whole family could get behind, because there isn’t a single member of Dad’s family who doesn’t have some ripping yarn about a bear at a campsite, a dog named Lancelot, or the car they called “Leaping Lena”. My father still laughs ‘til he cries telling the story about Uncle Din buying him a $500 surfboard because he thought it cost $5 – and he’s been telling that one since the 1960s.

The characters in these tales become part of a permanent pantheon I’ve been relating to most of my life – take Flossie, for example. When my parents were on their honeymoon, the legend goes, there was a waitress named Flossie at the diner. She was… friendly – my guess is she flirted with Dad. And so it became a running joke that Flossie was my father’s other girl – the woman he’d wind up with if my mother died or left him. (You’ve got to appreciate a family that has honeymoon stories – there’s another one about my father water skiing, then waking up the next day convinced he had Polio.)

So Flossie’s been around longer than I have. I’m rather fond of her, in fact, though it’s true to say she’s a grabby little bitch; my mother has no time for her. “I’m leaving my jewelry to you,” she would say. “For God’s sake don’t let Flossie get it!” On the other hand, I never met my father’s Marine Corps sergeant, but I’ve thought poorly of him ever since I learned he took Dad’s watch off his dislocated arm. Admittedly, some family anecdotes need polishing to bring out the Funny.

The family folklore masterpiece comes from Uncle George’s visit to Bramhall Hall in England. His knock on the door of the stately home was answered by a butler. Uncle George explained that his surname was Bramhall, and he wanted to explore the land from which his ancestors had come. “Yes,” replied a bored and snooty butler as he closed the door on my uncle “many of the serfs took the family name when emigrating to America.”

I once told this tale to an Englishman with a plummy sort of accent and an attitude to match, but I’m not convinced he appreciated it properly. He seemed embarrassed for me, as if I’d told him some great confidence. Mostly, I was patting myself on the back for working the word “serf” into normal conversation. Let this be a lesson in knowing one’s audience. Here’s another:

My father and Ron, a friend from his office, were dropping me off at college. The campus was dotted with charming streetlamps – old-style black poles with a base that rose above knee height and a cross-arm just below the light. As a fire precaution, the lights were built to go off for 5 minutes if the bulb came in contact with the panes surrounding it. As we parked in front of one of these lamps, I was regaling Dad and his colleague with tales of drunken escapades, most of which involve head-butting the lamps.

“Head-butting?” they asked.

“Yes,” I explained. “The base is the perfect height to stand on and grab the cross arm, using it as a handle to propel one’s head into the lamp, knocking the light out temporarily. Here, I’ll show you.”

I got out to demonstrate. Watching me through the windshield, Ron says gravely, “you must be very proud.” As I climb back into the car, he adds “I’m gonna let you tell this one at the office.”

This one's for you, Daddy.