But seriously, who gets hula hoop cuts?

It finally arrived.

I sent for it early this year, during the time when I was discovering Kundalini yoga and ordering workout and dance DVDs in lieu of joining a gym. It was on backorder for a couple weeks—okay, I can deal with that. When it didn't arrive by the promised date, I gave it a couple more days for good measure then called the company. Still on backorder, the supplier's fault, they said. Nothing we can do, lady. You still want it?

Of course. I want it.

Meanwhile, I did my Kundalini, my Bollywood, some ballet conditioning. I started learning basic salsa again, and some hip hop. (Hey! I heard that snicker!)

Still it didn't arrive. Am I going to have to call and get my money back?

Then I got pregnant. Fatigue and nausea set in, along with wild cravings for gingersnaps, Manzanilla olives, and Café Rio chicken tortilla soup. I flopped. Then I got busy and ordered pre-natal workout DVDs. No gym for us, but movement was still a must, so I switched over to bellydance (appropriate), Pilates, and exercising with a pregnant acrobat from Cirque du Soleil.

I still wanted it, but the thought of trying to use it with a growing belly made my eyes roll. Okay, I said, I can wait for it a while longer, since obviously I must, and since I won't use it for a few more months anyhow.

Long story short, it kept on not coming and then I forgot about it. My mind was taken up by the miracle at hand, and by trying to keep a level head, in case that miracle should turn out to be short-lived like the others.

And it did. At the tail end of June I started miscarrying. Rob and I hadn't told people about this pregnancy, not even our families, hoping to avoid getting some dear-to-us hopes up only to have to dash 'em again. We hoped and prayed we'd eventually have some fantastic news to share, or that in time folks would finally figure out the secret—that I was getting too fat to blame it solely on Eliane's French Bakery.

But. That's not the way things went.

So July has largely been about big pain and a drawn-out recovery. About fat and slow and a frustrating inability to stand up straight. I really hated being forced to quit the circus.

But by golly, it—that thing I ordered months ago—finally arrived. It showed up when I least cared, when I was still deeply Lortabbed and weepy with hurt, just as we were leaving for a family wedding and visit back east that I felt more than unprepared to handle.

I pulled it from its box and hated it almost instantly—bubble gum pink and flashy gold!—is it possible that colors exist in this world that are any less "me"? I shoved it back into its box, and away we flew to upstate New York.

(It was an exhausting trip, by the way, but I am so glad I didn't stay home like my body wanted me to. It was good to spend that untimely time with Rob's clan. I love them all, boy howdy.)

(I didn't love having to be there fat and sick though.)

(My fattest ever.)

(Ugh. Vanity hurt my feelings.)

We returned home from our traveling last week. Two days ago, I pulled pink and gold parts from the box again and this time put the gaudy thing together. I gave it a half-hearted swing, but still didn't care.

Yesterday I picked it up with real intent, and what's the first thing that happened? It sliced my hands in three places. But I set it in motion. I forgave it for being pink and gold. I also forgave it for giving me ridiculous cuts.

The only time I went back on that forgiveness was for a few seconds today at lunch, when I got balsamic vinegar in the biggest cut. OW.

Today I gave it another good swing, and kept it going 'round just a little bit longer. Tomorrow, I'll keep it circling for a little longer still.

Maybe if I keep at it eventually I'll be truly ready for the circus.



Photo: Mädchen mit "Hula Hupp" Reifen
from the German Federal Archive via this page