Yesterday, I joined about 30 individuals of both sexes in the promenade across the Sewanee Tigers football field. For all you non-Sewanee folk, drunken smiles, Wellington Capes and ridiculous shoes, the kind with the pointy heels that I wouldn’t be caught dead in, filled the field, if that gives you any sort of perspective. My friend/escort, McLarty, and I took the field, my right arm taken up by a bouquet of assorted flowers and my left arm through his right. I was freaking nervous; thank God I had had that final screwdriver before heading to the field.
When they announced my full name, I felt the same way I did when I was a child and my mom yelled my full name when I was in trouble. Then they declared my hometown, which isn’t actually my hometown. As I walked forward, quite a few people cheered. This made me smile and feel a little bit better about the situation, and less like my mom was accosting my behavior. McLarty's mom snapped pictures. I shook the Vice Chancellor's hand and took my place at the 40 yard line.
The winner's were celebrated, and then I hugged the Queen. After, a few awkward things occurred. First, my ex-boyfriend's mother attacked me and took more pictures, and second, I accidentally flashed someone (and by flashed, I mean, I straddled a ditch to hug someone and this other guy saw my slip and commented on my 'undergarments') in front of numerous parents, including McLarty's mom.
So, in conclusion, I look cute even when my slip is showing and despite the fact that I had been making quiche all morning while drinking vodka. I was totally out of my element, I had a great time, and I am glad I did not win. Why? Because I don’t think I could ever put “Homecoming Queen” on my resume, “nor is it appropriate for anyone else to do so,” says my Feminist mind. Also, I don’t wear ‘appropriate’ pointy homecoming shoes. C’est la vie?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment