I am horrified by the spectacle that is the Miss U.S.A. Pagent.
So I wasn't one of those little girls who dreamed of being Miss America. I didn't particularly want to be a ballet dancer either. I thought it would be cool to be an inventor. Or a farmer, like my dad, even.
But I knew little girls who dreamt of nothing but wearing that tiara. (I come from, like, beauty pagent central. And, yes, I know a land of little Jon Benets running around isn't healthy or normal. But it was my reality.) They'd practice their wave in the mirror. Do that fake-look-of-shock-followed-by-rehearsed-smile look. And they'd imagine walking down that runway.
"Here she comes.... Miss America" they'd make me (the tomboy horrified by their dress-up games, but instructed to spent at least some of my week out of the tree tops where I'd truly rather be) sing as they gathered up their imaginary gown and waltz down the stage.
But at what point do you surrender the dream to be Miss America and settle to be Miss U.S.A.?
How awful for those girls.
I watched it with a friend tonight. She had taped the show on Friday for us to watch when we get back. (It's my one girlfriend in New York from my high school. And, having been surrounded by the pagentry of pagents her whole life as well, she's as fascinated as I am.) And it was terrible.
The outfits were awful. The choreography was terrible. And the computer graphics on the screen behind the stage were terrible. I could have made them myself. With my Apple II GS back in 1995.
Ugh. Awful. Seriously.
Bought one lottery ticket.
*Two figures which my evangelical upbringing are telling me are some sort of religious sign, but which the reformed New Yorker in me is trying to ignore.