Post #2: On Butt Glue, Mismatched Earrings, And The Privileged Status Of An Old Queen

If you're wondering why this post is numbered, see this post.   If you're wondering why I'm on #2, here's #3, #4, #5, #6, and  #7, 'cause you're pretty far behind.  If you're wondering why I started at the end, don't worry, I'm almost back at the beginning.

I bluff big about a lot of things, mostly because they're the things I'm least sure about, or because I believe them the least.  One of those things is about being important.  I'll talk like I know I'm something special, mostly because I'm pretty sure I'm pretty normal.  I'm a pretty darned boring girl.  So when you hear me talk about how I'm pretty amazing, or whatever other bravado I throw your way, know it's because I'm convinced I have about zero evidence to support that.

One of the few things I've got going that is the whole pageant thing.  It was, however, eight years ago this June that I became Miss Minnesota.  I get older every year, and not a single article of my cute pageant clothes fit any more.  In fact, it's getting to be that one of the places I feel least special or remarkable is at pageant stuff, because I'm pretty aware of my distinct normality.  And yet, some of the most above-par folks I know are in the pageant world, so I keep going back.  I help out with some locals and occasionally get involved in state stuff.  I like having a chance to let other wonderful young women have an extraordinary experience and help them realize, if only for a brief time, that they are truly special.

This year I wanted to try a new thing.  There was a call put out for experienced backstage dressers during the Miss Minnesota pageant, and I offered to help during preliminary nights.  Dressers are the ladies who hang out in the dressing rooms with the contestants and do whatever they need you to do.  Zip dresses, fasten earrings, latch shoes (surprisingly hard to do for those contestants with fake nails, I might note), calm nerves, flounce dress trains, ensure cues are followed, and basically be the best stage mom meets best friend you can possibly be.  I was actually sort of looking forward to it.

When I showed up for my first night, I wasn't sure who I was supposed to report to or where, but I did know where the dressing rooms were.  So I went there.  I walked right into the dressing rooms and started working.  I said hi to the girls I knew, double-checked the names of girls I thought I knew, and introduced myself to those I didn't.  I did not use any titles, only my name.  I figured only a handful of the girls knew I was a former.  But I got right to work, asking about quick changes and offering thoughts on blush application. 

But something happened without my knowing it: everyone knew who I was.  There are, in my opinion, two kind of former Miss Minnesotas: very recent and very removed.  The ones who were done a couple of years ago are ones everyone remembers; the ones from 15 and 20 years ago are respected as classy, mature role models.  Those of us in the middle are too busy starting careers, making babies, and trying to figure out if we'll ever tell anyone about that crazy year we spent as Miss Minnesota.  We don't actually expect to be known.  And yet, a whole dressing room full of girls knew me as a former - or, as I prefer, and old queen.

Instantly, these girls trusted me.  I was, in fact, the hottest commodity in that dressing room.  The best part was that the first part of competition was swimsuit, and every single girl wanted me to tape their boobs or, better yet, glue their butt.  You see, what does a swimsuit do best?  Ride up, of course.  When you're in front of a judge, you can't exactly pick a wedgie.  Most girls use a fabric adhesive to stick the suit bottoms to their bottoms.  Problem is, it's hard to glue your own butt.  So, you need someone to smear the glue across your bum, dry it a bit (you don't want it to soak through the suit and show a wet spot), and stick it perfectly in place.

That, my friends, was my job: patting glue onto beauty queen butts.

Here's the thing about it.  For all of their high-maintenance appearance, most pageant girls are really pretty low-key.  A lot of things - fake nails, fake lashes, fake boobs, fake tans - are just means to an end.  They've got scholarships to pay, causes to advocate, and talents to perform.  They are extremely pragmatic about someone going nose-to-cheek with their butt.  That said, they're also mostly perfectionists.  They want someone who will do the best possible job, because that's what they do.  That someone was me.

As evidence of how much they seemed to respect me, and how laid back they actually were, on the second night I wore a cute top and fun earrings.  Almost half-way through the second half of the show, I finally looked at myself in the mirror.  I had two different earrings in.  Two very, very different earrings.  I turned to the girls waiting in that room and said, "Was just no one going to mention that I'm wearing two different earrings?"  They all paused and looked.  One girl said, "That's weird.  I was totally going to compliment you on how cute your earrings were."  Another said, "Wanna borrow a pair of mine that match?"

It was priceless.

Afterwards, I had to tell them that I wouldn't be around for finals night.  While they were straight-forward about the show going on, they seemed to be a little sad.  I'd like to think that it's because, even though I don't think too highly of myself all the time, they realized some value in having a goofy, hard-working, knowledgeable old queen backstage with them.  Maybe I'm not as painfully normal as I tend to let myself believe.  After all, I'm pretty fantastic at gluing down pageant swimsuits.