Sushi Tuesday

    Sunday night I did something I normally never do—I watched part of the Miss Universe Pageant. It wasn't intentional. I was sitting on the couch petting Hemaksi (whose favorite places to lie are the living room furniture and my bed) when the pageant came on.
 
    I must admit, though, I was struck by these young women.
 
    For one thing, their traditional gowns made for a nice opening. Miss Mexico's was my favorite, with an immaculately shiny headdress, but Miss Egypt's was also nice, and Miss Russia's was absolutely beautiful...for a dress. Miss USA looked like she was trying to be a peacock with a blue—I guess it was—star stuck to the back of her costume, and Miss England appeared to have draped herself in a flag.
 
    But what was most striking was the realization that all of their lives have been dedicated to that one event. Years of modeling and talent shows and beauty pageants, each working her way from Homecoming Queen to Miss Wherever, all for a three hour competition and the chance to spend a year traveling the world, making unrealistically optimistic speeches, and appearing on talk shows. A young life wasted before a camera.
 
    But apparently it's every girl's dream. I, along with every young unmarried woman in the state, still receive those silly invitations to audition for Miss Tennessee. It's ridiculous when you think about it. The young women who would audition for such a title wouldn't need an invitation. They're the ones camped out in line a week before the doors open.
 
    When I was little, people continually encouraged my mother to enter me in pageants. Apparently high cheekbones are an advantage in the world of models. But I couldn't be more pleased with my mother for refusing. I've dedicated my young life to good books, nature, and education, which are things the Misses couldn't probably care less about. I want to know how many of them have ever contributed anything insightful to a class discussion, retrieved a toad from the dog's water dish, or read a book without pictures. I could be judging them too harshly, but when over half of the competition is based on how well they can strut about in swimsuits and not trip over their evening gowns, I don't hold out much hope.
 
    If Mom had given into peer pressure and stuck me in pageant after contest, I would hate myself, both on the self-conscious level that all beauty stars suffer with and the deeper level of judging my what-could-have-been-self with what I am now.
 
    The now me could never have been Miss anything. One, I'm clumsy. I have poor coordination skills, which do not mix well with high heels. I don't like to feel as though I'm walking on pencils, anyway.
 
    Two, I despise make-up. I've only worn it three times, and each time it was applied partially coercively. Cosmetics suffocate me, and my eyes are dark enough, thank you. Three, I am rather not fond of cameras. They steal my soul, and it's so difficult to get another one.
 
    Four, I feel uncomfortable in dresses. I'm scrawny enough without a slinky material hugging my every non-existent curve. Five, I cannot contort my mouth into the Cheshire cat grin that becomes all models. My lips do not unhinge, I'm afraid.
 
    Finally, I don't like people enough to be competitive. I'd rather give the tiara to some Miss than have to fight for it. It's like the bouquets at weddings; I want as far away from the stampedes as possible.
 
    A chance at universal recognition for “beauty,” singleness, and country? I'll pass. Give me a good book and leave me be. I'll travel the world on my own accord, which excludes talk shows and high heels.
 
    Ashely