I paid $30 for a hoop to a woman who made them in her apartment. The red hoop was waiting for me just like she said it would be. It wasn’t a fire-engine red, but it sparked against the subdued wall that it leaned on. It was red like weathered bricks on chimneys. I slid the hoop into the backseat and glanced at it every few seconds in the rearview mirror. Like a mother checking on her newborn, I put my hand on the hoop every time we came to a stoplight.
I understand that Old Red was just a piece of plastic, but she was powerful. She rolled over my body pressing a weight on my skin that was familiar yet fleeting. She was a circle of protection, a chance to move in ways that I had only done with the curtains drawn in the privacy of my bedroom. I was thrusting my waist, my hips, my legs in broad daylight, and it was okay, and I was okay. Old Red changed something in me. She calmed the restless inner-child, and awoke a strong, sensual woman. I felt sexy for the first time in my life thanks to Old Red. She filled a void that I didn’t know was there. I felt bad about myself until she rolled over me and made me pay attention to my hips, my stomach, my arms, my butt and I realized, I wasn’t so bad.
I gave Old Red to a lady who I thought needed her more than me. I wonder where Old Red is now.