So anyway, we decided that enough was enough (after we took a Dairy Queen break... More on that some other time) and that we should live the dream we grew up knowing and loving: Going to Walmart late at night when nothing else is open. In Boulder, there are like 7 bagillion things to do at night. But in Parker, where we grew up, there is absolutely nothing open after 9 p.m. except for Walmart and Waffle House. So we drove (and got lost) for about half an hour before we finally found the nearest Walmart. We went inside and spent a solid hour planning out our Nerf arsenal for the next Nerf war. Of course, we didn't buy anything. We're college students, and whatever money I DO have goes to other more important things, like clothes and shoes and pizza at 2 in the morning :)
After a little while of meandering through Walmart, nostalgically re-living our childhood through vintage StarWars LEGO sets they had, we made our way to the "good ol' fashioned old-timey fun!" aisle. The aisle that sells pool noodles, hula hoops, make your own birdhouse kits... You know. The stuff Gramma got you for Christmas when you were 12 because she didn't know what an XBOX was.
It was there that I saw it. The magical hula hoop of DESTINY. This particular hoop was the like Audi R-8 V10 of hula hoops. It had LED lights all around it, so when you were vigorously thrusting your hips to and fro, it would light up like a Pink Floyd laser show and blow everyone's fucking minds.
I remembered the glorious days of third grade when I was a beast at the hula hoop. I was as close as a third grader can get to being pro without getting endorsements and sponsorships and touring the globe cuz I am so talented for a lil' guy. I triumphantly held the hula hoop, feeling the glorious power coursing through my veins. I looked at Pat and said, "Pat. Buckle your mother-loving seatbelt because this shit is about to get REAL." I placed the hula hoop around my waist, ready to shake it like a stripper at happy hour. And the whole thing played out something like this.
I stood there, ashamed and close to weeping. How could I not hula hoop? It's the most simple goddamned thing in the world. Step one: Put it on your waist. Step two: Gyrate like a cheap whore with daddy issues. Step 3: Bask in the glorious cheers and shouts as throngs of scantily-clad women rush around you, begging for your phone number and throwing panties all over you. But for some reason, I couldn't do it. I tried again. Same result. 3 or 4 more tries later, and I had given up. "Pat..." I said, tears welling in my sad little eyes. "Pat, I've failed you... I let you down." He looked me right in the eyes and said, "You know what? I believe that you were once the greatest hula hooper on the playground. You know why? Because so was I." He took the hoop and in a state of pure childish wonder, I stared at him like the first time a girl sees a pony and decides she needs one for every birthday of her young goddamned life.
Pat places that wonderfully beautiful piece of plastic around his waist, steadied his footing, took a deep breath and began to thrust his pelvis around in a motion that can only be described as breathtakingly professional. But after about 3 seconds of that, it became quite apparent that neither one of us still held that glory we once were so proud of in the third grade.
Perhaps we will never know why 18-year-old men can't hula hoop. Maybe it's some sort of fairy magic that wears off after the third grade. Maybe we're just out of shape college kids. Maybe the hula hoops were broken and it wasn't our faults at all. I guess we'll never know why hula hoops suck so much.
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