My talents are few. I was never the best athlete. I was one of the worst singers in school. I can't draw or do crafts. Math continues to elude me. But one skill was mine. I could hula. In fifth grade, I was the hula hoop champ of Longfellow Elementary. Really. We had a field day, and I won that category. Obviously, that victory has stayed with me. I would hula hoop whenever the opportunity presented itself. (You would be surprised at how infrequently it did, but I was always ready.)
My friend's kindergartener recently showed me her new playroom and my eyes widened when I saw two hula hoops propped in the corner. We both took one. I popped mine over my head and began. The hoop shimmied down to my ankles. I gasped. I tried again. And again. The hoop fell to the floor every time. Maddie hula-ed solemnly, sympathetic to my distress as the truth finally dawned on me.
It was never skill. It was because I was the flattest kid in my entire elementary school. Now, après Baby C, I have an undeniable pot belly. I was actually somewhat okay with the potbelly until that moment in the basement. But no figure and no hula hoop? That's just not fair at all.