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I mean, of course, the second annual international awards event in hooping.
This is the big time. You get a statuette and everything.
The HGAllStars took home the first-ever <best performance group> title last year. Cute Chika was the favorite <newbie>. To whom will the batons be passed? The mystifing choice (by the people, of the people, organized by hoopnotique?) of “Guggenhoopin” as <best online hooping video>…In that category this year there must be countless contenders, given how many amazing videos now exist. I think my personal favorite would have to be Brecken’s arthouse hoopfilm, with inner dialogue spoken as part of the soundtrack. You know, this one. Notice she’s using a *naked* hoop.
And, um. May I humbly suggest a new category of <best hoopblog>?
Cast your nomiations here people! Before January 9!!
Finding joy inside the hoop. It’s been a while. Too long. (Book’s done.)
Somewhere in the hoopgoddess archives there’s a piece I wrote about how my hoop helped me to define my edges and set boundaries. Visualize a forcefield that protects me from giving myself away for the wrong reasons: e.g. just to make the other person happy, or because of fears I have (of not being liked, of being lonely). That’s been the hoop’s single greatest gift to me. (Followed closely by this core, which michaelangelo himself could have hardly sculpted better.)
The forcefield’s bolstered my professional life, kept me physically healthy, but more than anything it’s kept me True in the romance department. See—about a year after my divorce, with a couple of hurtful rebound relationships under my belt, I had an epiphany. I realized that something inside me always Knew about the potential of a prospective partner very early on.
I’m not talking about love at first sight, but about whether there was Potential or No: that was always clear to my wisest instincts (which make their home somewhere in my gut-belly region), after the first few times I hung out with someone. If not the very first.
But more often than not, I let my head do the assessment, and if the candidate had a certain combination of qualities my head thought were important (education, worldly perspective, good looks, chivalry, professional prospects, and palpable desire for me), I’d ignore my gut. Inevitably, my heart would then jump into the game and develop feelings for the Certain Someone. I find I can grow fond of almost anyone, because almost everyone is loveable.
It would take months, or sometimes even years, for the feeling in my gut to finally prove itself right: we weren’t a fit. And that unavoidable Truth-of-the-Gut revelation was always a very painful time for all involved.
So, epiphany processed, I decided to attune myself to my gut. The result was the development of the Two Date Rule. The TDR goes like this: after the first date, if I have a clear feeling in my gut it’s not a fit, I don’t go on a second date. If I’m not clear, I go on a second date. If I have a clear feeling in my gut on the second date it’s not a fit or if my gut isn’t saying YES!, I don’t go on a third date. (Sometimes I do go on a third date just to let the person know in person that it’s not a fit.)
Nearly two years after instituting the TDR (in February 09 it will have been a full 2), only two men have made it beyond third/fourth dates into multi-week/-month relationships with me. Two out of 40-50. Meager returns, yes, but returns of the highest integrity.
There are multiple benefits. I’m on friendly terms with a number of the guys I went on 2 dates with—because we shared enough to appreciate one another, but neither invested enough (time, emotion, or money) to feel bitter afterwards (except for a couple of loonies who invest their whole heart on the first date, and yes, they are irrefutably loonies, not romantics.) And I haven’t wasted my precious time (or his) on those “I’m not really into this but at least I’m not home alone on a Friday night” moments—instead I’ve written two books in a single (ha ha) year and had many amazing adventures with my friends.
And I’m pretty direct about what didn’t work for me. “What do you say to them?!” friends ask me. Well, I’m honest. And honestly, more often than not there’s no chemistry—people literally don’t smell right to me (or, in the rarer case we get that far, taste right.) It’s a hard thing to argue with, being told “I’m sorry, I just don’t think I’ve got chemistry with you.” (Chemistry gets more elusive to me every year that passes, and I take it very seriously when I find it.)
If I met the candidate online, and any kind of lie has surfaced during the live date, I’ll say—“it disturbs me that you started things off by lying. I just can’t deal with that.” And once or twice, to a certain kind of person, I’ve said “you seem to be very excited about me, but you actually didn’t ask me ANYthing about myself over the course of the past five hours, and it makes me doubt your reasons for being interested in me.” Yes, I really did.
And, after 22 months (40-50 men, probably an average of something like 1.6 dates with each), I haven’t regretted my decisions. I haven’t looked wistfully back upon a single one and thought “I really should have given him another chance.”
Sure, I’ve found myself alone on a Friday night, and rolled around in self-pity in the wake of a sappy romance flick, even felt stabs of envy when I see friends fall into that most delightful of highs, fresh love. But I’m not settling for anyone just to have someone around, which is what I’ve witnessed my past self—and so many other people—doing. If it’s not right, I’d rather be alone, in perfect possession of my integrity, and proud of it. And maybe getting my hoop on, just for me.
It’s official. I am taking a leave of absence from the hoop troupe. Hard to come to this decision… grueling to announce it to the girls, which I did about two weeks ago, and now rough to put it out here. Formalize it.
You want to know why. Contributing factors are emotional and logistical, she says in a robot voice, any anguish squashed out of it.
The latter’s easy to talk about, the logistics: one month ago I moved to the other side of the Bay. I don’t have a car, and getting to the studio where the Allstars rehearse via public transit is a multiple-hour endeavor. About the time I moved, the final phase of my current book project got underway, and I’m working nearly around the clock to finish by mid-November.
But also. I’m contemplating whether I’m really cut out for performing. Or performing as part of a troupe that has a.. brand? The Allstars are all about projecting joy, emitting light, beaming smiles. As my style has developed (I celebrated my second anniversary hooping—quietly—back at the end of August), I feel like the qualities that have emerged are more along the lines of… intense, maybe sultry, and maybe with a certain… brainy-ness to my combinations.
I find it difficult to turn it on the moment I step onto the stage, and to focus on making the audience feel good. Instead, I like immersing myself in the connection with my hoop. Gradually deepening the trance. You’re welcome to watch me, but I’m not going to play to you, not at first. Once I’m really one with my hoop and the music, in what Baxter of the Hoop Path would call pe*a*ce (I think), I will look up, acknowledge your gaze, flirt, and then scamper back and forth across the line between introversion and extroversion.
I guess I’m an exhibitionist of (with?) my intimacy with the hoop—but ultimately, I hoop for me. Not for anyone watching.
And over time, as this realization about my relationship to hooperforming has clarified, being part of the troupe has often made me feel bad about myself. I feel like I’m not meeting expectations. I’m not doing it right. I’m not on message. This isn’t because of anything the girls have said or not said… mostly not, anyway… but because of me.
Now, when I have a spare moment to contemplate it (which is pretty rare), I wrestle with the question: am I not a performer, then? Isn’t it all about being able to turn on immediately, and please the audience? Is it? Isn’t it? Does it matter? Am I letting my insecurities reign and creating an elaborate intellectualized excuse for it, as my runaway freight train of a brain sometimes does? Am I just lazy, unwilling to overcome what performers must work to overcome, stagefright and all that?
I dunno. I hoop. I like it when you watch. Just so long as you don’t have expectations.
But lordie, do I miss those girls.
Hoopers know it, but for readers who haven’t yet been looped in: you start big and heavy, and get lighter from there.
No, I’m not referring to your body weight (though I could be, because hooping’s a highly effective form of exercise)—I’m talking hoop size here.
This is because the larger the diameter, the longer the hoop takes to circle your body, making it easier to do any sort of tricks. And the heavier the hoop, the more its own momentum keeps it propelled around your body once you’ve gotten it started.
The reason many hoopers ultimately move to progressively lighter hoops is that they move faster and are easier to maneuver—off the body in particular. This comes in handy when you’re keeping up with music that’s 140 beats per minute. (To put that BPM# into perspective, this handy website calculates that music at 145 beats per minute is equivalent to a 9.5 minute mile.) Once you’ve been hooping for a while, your hoop propulsion muscles get so strong and their movements so precise that the lack of weight/momentum isn’t a big deal.
My delicate little wrists (just 5.5 inches around) have always been weak, even with glucosamine and strength-building exercises, and cannot manage twisting a standard hoop for more than a minute. So my PSI hoop is just over 15 ounces, and my regular practice hoop a bit lighter than that. Compare those to your standard HoopGirl hoop, which weighs an average of 23 ounces.
A lot of hoopers say once you’ve scaled down you can’t go back.
It’s true I don’t really enjoy my original hoop very much any more: it just feels unwieldy. But recently I noticed something missing from my flight time. I haven’t felt terribly connected to my hoop.
Then one day I thought: maybe that’s because literally, I can hardly feel it. Really, it’s moving so fast and weighs so little, that I can’t even identify my contact points any more.
So I reached for my medium hoop, which is actually one of my original hoops that I cut down along the way, meaning it’s made out of the thicker, heavier tubing, but has a smaller circumference. This is a weird combination, incidentally, because it’s quite heavy, but takes no time to complete a revolution. It means hitting yourself in the head is fraggin painful!
But it feels so good! I break into a sweat in a matter of minutes, and feel my heart rate really kick up. It feels substantial, a real dance partner.
I’m not abandoning my lighter hoops—far from it, especially for performances—but I’m using my chubby hubby hoop, as I refer to it, for at least half of every practice session right now. And I feel distinctly more connected.
It’s hard not to be intimidated by the trapeze girls. Bodies like wasps doing backflips and handstands in the dressing room.
I’ve asked Claudia like ten times while we were getting ready What’s missing with my makeup, my face? I stare at myself in the mirror and know things are missing. Now, in Ruby’s dressing room, I beg Natasha to do something. Something is missing.
It’s only the next morning that I will realize. Instead of my everyday silver necklace, my lavender eyeshadow, my glossy nearly natural pink lips, what I needed was a big purple diamond around one eye, and some slick black lipstick, and a heavy duty collar. Maybe some silver stars painted on the cheek opposite the diamond. Oh well.
And rockstar Claudia neglected a garter belt in designing her outift, and she’s losing her flared bootcovers while merely walking to the car, en route to Ruby. So we make a mad dash for the Victoria’s Secret around the block from the club. We bust in there like red alert and demand garter belts of the store greeters. But here’s a piece of news for you, dear reader: “VS doesn’t really do garter belts anymore.” Under our impatient glittery eyes, they manage to find one. Not several to choose from, just one. Luckily, it works.
Lesson number one. Don’t just try your clothes on– and hoop in em– in advance of your first high pressure gig—try out hair and makeup too, down to the fraggin fake eyelashes that take me 45 minutes to affix.
* * *
All day long Claudia has been telling herself I’m a rockstar. On stage later, it shows.
I forgot about that. The whole visualization and affirmation thing.
I drift in and out of being committed while performing. I Go For It for a few, and then kind of come to and feel silly, get bashful. I forgot to tell myself: I’m a superstar. Instead, there are moments when I question what in heaven’s name I am doing up there.
Lesson number two. Accept the role wholeheartedly. Anything less and, oh jeez, does it show.
* * *
To be fair, it is a difficult space. I mean, on the positive side, the stage is totally cleared, a big difference from regular nights when the DJ booth takes up a good portion of the space. And Ruby is one of the grandest venues ever, architecturally, reminding me of a couple clubs in gorgeous historic buildings I’ve been to in Europe.
But the reason the stage is cleared is that the DJ is on the dancefloor. The dancefloor is also partially covered with buffet tables. And the house lights are on. Romantically low, but on. None of the usual blacklights I’ve dressed for.
In other words, it is more of a networking event. Local paper SF Weekly celebrating their “Best of SF” issue: one big advertisement, really.
And the DJ? Well, He is hitting all your 80s favorites. Oh yes he is.
* * *
I’m pacing the dressing room, grumbling What is this shit?- Are we at a fraggin wedding?
It’s time for Natasha to go on and he’s been playing Van Halen and Survivor and the Rolling Stones. I mean, seriously.
So I walk over to him. This is awesome, I start off, smiling beautifully over the lie slithering between my teeth. And we’re going to start performing, and wondered if you could bring the tempo up just a wee bit. He says he was working up to it slowly, but will go ahead and click it up a notch.
When Billie Jean comes on, Natasha launches herself onto the stage.
By the time Claudia goes on he is at a sensuous midtempo Latin groove. During mine his mashing keeps crashing in with unexpected transitions, making it challenging to keep flowing…
The sweat is sheeting off me by ¾ of the way through.
I manage to not only drop my hoop with my shakey, slippery hands, but actually fling it out into the audience. Oops.
* * *
But in those moments where I really lost myself in Being a Performer, lapping up the smiles, the eyes, and beaming hoop love outward… that was sweet.
Lesson number three: Every time you put yourself out there you get better.
Well, folks. It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for. The votes were as follows:
Turquoise -12
Silver – 9
Red -9
But–and I apologize for reinforcing feelings of impotence related to the democratic process (really! your vote counts!)–I’m going with pink/silver.
Let me ’splain. I’m headed to a huge, dark, blacklit club. I took a few moments this week to study the past costumes of the Hoopgirls who’ve performed at Ruby Skye, and what looks most radiant is lighter, brighter, reflective colors. I don’t have bootcovers or a wig for the turquoise outfit either.
Right now I’m trying to do pulses of intense 5 minute dance, so I know about how long I’m out there on stage tomorrow. And sit-ups. And bronzing lotion, exfoliating first. I’m _such_ a girl right now.
The Allstars perform in a rather ungratifying location at the YELP! holiday party, but shine nonetheless.
