While my classmates conversed in hushed tones about philosophy, I stood alone in the back corner of the room—hula hooping.

My Humanities teacher had asked me to hula hoop for the entire class period to prove my claim that I was the “best hula hooper in the world.” And I had accepted because I enjoyed the hilarity of the situation. Imagine! Hula hooping for an entire class period!But after the first ten minutes, people lost interest and my fatigue caused the humor I had derived from the situation to wear off.

I entertained myself with the prospect of writing a philosophical treatise on what I had learned while hula hooping. I couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of combining the solemn, sorrow-riddled worlds of Kierkegaard and Spinoza with the all-American, happy-go-lucky activity of hula hooping. I would make sure to include Kierkegaard’s angst and questions such as What am I doing here on Earth? Why I am at school? Why am I hula hooping? As I racked my mind for more philosophy, I was knocked out of my reverie by one of my classmates, who spitefully stopped the hula hoop with his hand.

My philosophical treatise ended up condensing into a list, titled “Ten Things I Learned From 30 Minutes of Hula Hooping.” I wrote each of my points in a different color of marker and topped it all of with a picture of myself hula hooping with arrows pointing to my sweat. To this day, my list and my legend remain on my Humanities teacher’s wall.