Hoop of hope

My latest plan to move permanently to the Hunter was dashed just before Christmas giving a bitter sweet edge to the end of 2011. It was tears before bedtime one night as I cried on the Country Mouse’s shoulder and threw myself a fully fledged pity party. It was hard to face the New Year celebrations knowing that at the stroke of midnight last year I vowed that the dawn of 2012 would see me a fully-fledged, card-carrying Hunter resident.

Mercifully my equilibrium had been restored before the clock struck 12 on the last day of the year, so I could truly toast the New Year without bittness and look forward to everything it would bring into my life. I was philosophical about my situation, full of hope for the year ahead and buried my residual disappointment in a joyful nine-day summer holiday with the CM.

But on my first day back at work in Sydney I found that I hadn’t buried that disappointment deep enough and it oozed to the surface and ran it foul odour all over my brand new year. Reality check: I was going to be working in Sydney for the foreseeable future, commuting for the foreseeable future and due to upcoming major renovations at the Domestic Goddess’s castle I now had to find a new Sydney abode as well. My mood and my emotions went rapidly south.

At lunchtime I took my sad self to the healing walls of Westfield Bondi Junction. As though led there by some benevolent shopping gods I soon found one of my favourite shops, Lulu Lemon Athletica, and got lost in its ambience. One of the many things I love about this shop is its superb service. I had barely made it to the complimentary rehydration station than a genuinely concerned Lulu Lemon staffer asked if I was OK. She meant it. So I told her, “You know I feel really down.”

“I find”, she said earnestly, “that when I feel like that hooping really helps. Do you want to hula hoop? We can do it together.” Delighted? I was beyond delighted. She appeared with two hoops, cleared a space in the shop and we started to swing, she in her designer yoga wear and me in my ridiculous business skirt and heels. I hadn’t hula hooped since I was a kid; I closed my eyes and I was on the cement driveway of my childhood home, my orange plastic hoop whirling around me. (Hula hoops were strictly forbidden inside, as was another childhood favourite, the pogo stick, another late 1950s classic surely due for a revival).

I started feeling heady, then slightly dizzy and then euphoric - the oxygen rush and the hoop were doing their magic. After a couple of minutes I was transformed. I left the shop laughing and full of gratitude - for the kindness of the staffer, the recovered childhood memory and the sheer physical buzz of hooping. A hoop of hope indeed.