Royally Average

"Do something out of your comfort zone". A broad and challenging prompt was my final piece of work in English 225, Academic Argumentation. I came across this class as a sophomore and a semester before beginning the Minor in Writing. I was excited about the prompt and opportunity to write differently than I ever had before, which motivated me to make it my best piece of writing yet.

I had decided to walk in a fashion show on campus and try to experiment with incorporating humor and vivid descriptions in my writing. Looking back on this writing, it is a reminder of the potential I was able to see I could have and the pride I felt writing it led me to apply to the Minor in Writing. It is still one of my favorite pieces of writing and am happy I could turn an experience into a memory through my work.

Royally Average

My lips curled to form the word, “Congrats!” in an all too familiar way, while my hands found their way together to contribute to the roaring applause. I stood consciously clapping and smiling on stage while the butterflies in my stomach snuck back into their cocoons once again. Ahhh, back to normal. My heart had returned from a quick momentary pitter-patter back to the typical, lub-dub, lub-dub. Just like that it was all over and a size 9 pair of nude pumps turned around for a last walk down the runway.

I am halfway done with college, the “best four years of your life” as I was always told growing up. I know I should probably be looking ahead to my future, to plan what I will become, but instead I am looking back. Often, I am continuously scanning through my database of memories from the last two years to see if I am actually taking advantage of all the opportunities college offers. Am I taking the risks I promised myself I would? Have I stepped out of my comfort zone at all?

My greatest fear is not walking across the graduation stage and tripping over my dress, but instead it is having the thought run through my mind the moment I get my diploma that I did not make the best of my college experience. That I wasted four years here and never popped the safe bubble that I comfortably floated to college in. So, when my English class assignment was to do something out of my comfort zone, a soft smile took over my face. It was an excuse to have that fear-overcoming, out-of-the-box experience. The same day I was trying to think of what I wanted to do, my email lit up: “MRelay First Annual Pageant- Volunteers needed!” That was it.

“Jessica Golden would like to volunteer and walk on behalf of her Relay For Life team. Please let me know if you need any information from me! Thanks” I pressed send and saw the message fly through digital space before any doubts could urge me to try and stop it. Responding immediately locked me in to the commitment and I scheduled the block of time on my calendar like a brick in the wall: permanent.

Two weeks later, I received an email with a time and date to meet with the pageant hosts to go over dress sizes. I knew the pageant could help me overcome two fears. First being that I am not a size zero, which is always awkward when everyone else around you is, and still trying to look beautiful compared to them. Second was to overcome stage freight and walk across a runway. When they asked for my size and dress preference, I swallowed the lump in my throat that urged me to say a size smaller to avoid public humiliation and instead confidently gave them my preference and half-jokingly said, “just try to find me a dress that will fit my boobs please!” Humor is usually an easy way to ease some tension, and it did. The comment received a few laughs but the underlying message came through. Get me a dress that will fit so I am not embarrassed.

After the meeting, I began to promote the event. I made all my friends in my sorority buy a ticket, promising them that it would be great and for a good cause. I plastered my Facebook and Twitter with promotional messages, all contributing to the “fake” excitement I was giving off to try and suppress my growing nerves. All my friends couldn’t wait to see my walk down the runway. I couldn’t wait for it to be over.

It was a typical Tuesday. I woke up, had some breakfast, took a shower. Then I spent a few hours doing my hair and makeup before heading over to the show. My eyelashes curled perfectly in line as if soldiers ready for battle. Each strand of my hair was the right amount of straight and bouncy, with a fresh shoe-like shine to it. I wanted to appear flawless, but as I walked with my heels in my hand and the wind swirling through my just finished hair, the perfect look I was going for was blown right off my face. Yep, back to usual looking again.

When I arrived at the show, the “models” were required to get dressed and do a few walks down the runway. Despite this being a charity pageant on a college campus, some of there girls were actual models. Tall, beautiful, blonde with the perfect half-moon crescent white smile and even a charming personality that everyone secretly envies, but I wasn’t discouraged yet! There were a few other girls like me. We were all healthy, average college girls drenched in the flaws that come with growing up. As I was handed my dress and removed the saran wrap barrier, it was truly wonderful. Peach colored with a sparkly gold trim that fell slightly above my knees and fell softly over my stomach. It was worth about $500 and felt like I was wearing gold molded for royalty.

Slipping the dress on one leg at a time and hearing the purr of the back zipper close perfectly at the peak of my shoulder blades meeting, I let out a sigh of relief- it fit. The next few hours were filled with the same joyous spirit of a holiday party, eloquent movements in gorgeous gowns, socializing with strangers, temporary yet wonderful. I felt a few drips of sweat go down the side of my face as I watched these girls glide across the floor. My nerves were slowly seeping out each time I heard a model mention winning Homecoming Queen in high school or walking in a fashion show before. They were experienced! My confidence was slowly diminishing as I felt my body language change from proud to discouraged. My shoulders slouched to the floor and knees weakened preparing for fetal position. Now I was intimidated on top of all my nerves. As the chatter continued during each walkthrough, I heard my name and somehow mustered up the ability to put my foot on the stage. Left. Right. Left. Right. I was doing it! There may have been no audience and no announcer, but I was walking down the runway with a smile across my face and as I made my way back behind the curtain I felt a jolt of fortitude like a jelly fish sting. I could do this.

The excitement slowly built up in me from my toes to my chin and then slithered right into my bones. The pit in my stomach swished back and forth as my heart beat went from zero to sixty. Every nerve in my fingertip was electrified as voices filled the room and tables became crowded. I peaked my head out from behind the curtain- it was a full house. The mixture of excitement and nerves and finally bubbled over like water in a pot of pasta, the last drops of hesitation to back out left my body.

I was seventh in line to walk out of the 25 and as each girl went in front of me, another quick breath escaped my body. Number one was beautiful. Breathe. Number two looked confident. Breathe. Number three did a twirl to capture the crowd’s attention. My heart began to beat right outside of my dress and my mind suddenly escaped my body. Fight or flight now. “Next up, Jessica Golden wearing a Rachel Roy dress!” My right foot which was fenced in by a borrowed nude pump somehow found the first step. The curtain opened in front of my eyes and the spotlight gleamed down to illuminate the peach and gold on the dress. I heard a roar from the right side of the room, which I imagine was where my friends were but the world spun so quickly in the moment that I never actually could see them. I strutted down the red runway with a sparkle in my eye and an intrinsic feeling that this moment was about me and for me. For one moment everyone in the room had their eyes on me- the girl in a designer gown who was slowly revealing dimples from giggling while walking down the runway. Was this real?

When I reached the end I quickly put my hands on my hips as I had seen professionals do on TV and smiled for the camera. My bruised, tree trunk soccer legs did a cherubic spin and I fearlessly went back down the runway. I stepped off stage and closed my eyes for a minute, trying to mentally store the moment forever but I couldn’t even remember seeing anything when I walked. I re-opened my make-up covered eyes to several hands in my face and smiles. Everyone was congratulating one another! We all had those nervous butterflies but now the atmosphere was filled with post-performance giddiness. Tension left my shoulders as I received pats on the back for being one of the first ten to walk. As relieved as I was that I didn’t wipe out on stage, I had a new feeling sweep in when the butterflies left. A sparkle remained in the corner of my eye and it was the crown. Do I have a chance?

I didn’t enter the pageant to win, nor did winning cross my mind prior to that moment but when I saw the rhinestones reflect off the tiara and how well the shine would match my royal dress, I had a glimpse of hope. Maybe, just maybe I would win. We still had another walk to do on the runway, this time instead of a camera waiting at the end there was a question to answer. I had zero preparation, but it went well with the zero nerves I had this time around. My bubbling confidence was about to boil over.

Number seven walked back down the runway and a smile so big swept across my face it looked plastic although I was genuinely happy. When I reached the host waiting at the end of the runway, I gave him my name and said I was ready for my question. He said, “What is the worst story you have ever told?” The question appeared like a racecar turning on its brights in the woods as I crossed the street, unavoidable and terrifying. Every prickle of missed hair on my leg stood up and moisture seeped through my palms. What was the worst story I’ve ever told?

Anyone in the ballroom who wasn’t looking at me before definitely was now. As I stood there uttering “ummm” and “uhh well” like a confused child, my mind was blank. With each blink some of my mascara came off and the sweat rapidly perspiring off my head was penetrating through my once straight hair making it imperfectly curled in random places. Finally, after what felt like hours of standing in a daze, I replied with “this, this story right now” and my five-inch-high heels and unpolished toes shuffled off the stage so quickly that tripping over my two left feet was second in my mind compared to getting out of the spotlight as soon as possible. I could not hear the announcer respond to me, but I could hear the roar of laughter that quickly clogged the room.

Everyone backstage chuckled and kindly assured me that my hesitation and answer was clever. That everyone was laughing with me and not at me. My stomach was churning and I thought I was going to be sick. Funny was not exactly what I was going for, but the immediate reassurance popped the balloons of doubt that were about to take me away. I became flushed once again with the slight wind feeling that I could win. Laughter was clearly the way in to someone’s heart.

The final part of the pageant was about to begin. Every beautiful girl had shown off her dress and answered a question. All that was left was the results. We filed into two lines like kindergartners in a hallway, close together and anxious, as we took the stage one last time. My roller coaster of emotions was on it’s final dip with my heart racing again and I felt my feet so swollen and sweaty that I was nervous I’d slip out of my heels. My vision became blurry and the only image I could make out was the sparkling crown on the edge of the table. The runner-up was announced and my name was not called. Could I really win?! The next few seconds felt like an eternity as the name of the winner was about to be called. My name was not called.

Each step couldn’t come soon enough as I tried to scurry off the stage and blend in with everyone else. As I flicked off my heels and awkwardly reached around my back to pull my dress zipper, a wave of memories overcame my exhausted brain. Every moment I could remember I had been second best. The all too familiar feeling brought me back to the high school senior sports ceremony where I won a prestigious New York state award, but it was not the highest award given that night. Then the moment when I competed in a Long Island trivia contest for three years and won in my town but got third overall. Then the state track meet I qualified to run in but wasn’t quite fast enough to win a medal. These experiences helped ameliorate my phony congratulation smile that I wore on stage. I have always been a good loser. They also all had in common the same momentary heart-racing glimpse of hope that this time would be the one where I am the best.

I put back on my sweatpants and wrapped up my princess dress. Not every fairy tale has a happy ending. As I said my goodbyes I was handed a plastic pink participation crown, which I quickly put into my pocket. Why do I need another second place trophy? But as my head looked down at my dirty running sneakers and my lungs let out a final sigh, my pocket buzzed with excitement. My phone! I tapped in my passcode and quickly became inundated with text messages from friends who saw me at the pageant. The messages were filled with inspiring reviews of how beautiful I looked, happy I appeared strutting down the runway, funny my response was and that I should buy the dress I modeled for a party next week. Not being crowned suddenly wasn’t important.