The most un-Australian thing about me is that I’m terrible at sport.

Since puberty granted me the gift of adulthood and threw my centre of gravity out the window, I’ve avoided team sports where I can. I’ve dodged corporate netball teams and evaded social basketball games. I even held my year 8 soccer team’s record for Most Times Bouncing a Ball Off of Head. This never happened on purpose. My head would just find the ball in a sport that famously takes place at the opposite end of the body.

All of this is to say that I’m well immunised against Olympic fever. Right until the sport that occupied my youth takes centre stage. And that sport is rhythmic gymnastics. Yes, I was a junior gymnast. Unlike its swishy and flippy cousin, rhythmic gymnastics is less about feats of superhuman strength and more about props. Rhythmic gymnasts perform floor routines with their chosen apparatus, be that hoop, ball, club, or ribbon. It’s less gravity-defying and more what someone might do for tips at a traffic light. And it’s perfect.

It is a sport dominated by women, particularly at the Olympic level. It’s why they give out medals at the games; so that the girlies have an accessory to match their outfits. Never leave home without a statement necklace.

The sport started in the Soviet Union in the 1940s, so you know it’s fun. No, it’s better than fun. Rhythmic gymnastics is about expressive movement, precision, and pulling leotards out of, you know where.

My life as a gymnast was brief. Let me take you back to when I was small, in the late 90s – early 2000s. I should clarify one element upfront: I was bad. And I stayed bad. I had lead feet, lazy technique, didn’t like being told what to do, and got mad when the other kids outperformed me. My mum would kindly remind her little diva that if I wanted to get any better, I would have to practice. Excuse me, mother? How dare you. Do you think Nikki Webster practised flying over the stadium at the Olympic opening ceremony? No, she just had it in her all along. And so do I.

I loved the pageantry. Spandex is my colour, after all. For me, gymnastics was about spectacle. And what I lacked in skill and athletic prowess, I made up in pizazz. My ever-patient mother would drive me to the gym every week, only to watch her daughter continue to stack it and narrowly miss taking down fluorescent lights. But despite weeks of not trying or making any changes, I continued to suck at rhythmic gymnastics. If only someone had told me.

So, if I didn’t want to do gymnastics, why did I do gymnastics? Easy. My friend did it.