Pageantry

 I really hate pageants. Besides being demeaning to participants they are pointless and boring. That doesn't change when you are dressed as a knock-off Mickey Mouse. The evening started for me about four when I had to suit up and learn what my job was. I was to escort every other girl out for her cat-walk turn and then over for her question and then back. The other girls went and did the same with my cute neighbor Minnie as their guide. At five we started with the little girls who were being trained at a young age that their bodies were their most important assets and they were about to find out who had the best one. The little girls when incredibly smoothly with not a single chicken out, or panic attack. As the best cutest girl was crowned and the others put in their place of lesser beauty the next age group came to be judged and sorted. These girls were much more nervous and more ridiculously made up with big magnificent hair and makeup rarely seen out side the crack-whore industry. I had gotten into the routine of sweating inside my suit and taking girl after girl for her promenade when as we got to the eleven and twelve-year-olds things started to go bad. There was some boundary in social anxiety presented by puberty and these girls were much more nervous about looking good and winning. There were some criers, some hyper-ventilators, and even one garbage-can-puker. I was feeling bad for the girls now as I had to drag some of them from one position to the next as they locked up with fear on the stage. A girl or two were giving some over-sized high heals a spin and more than one fell off the side of their shoes and twisted an ankle. The next group was even worse they were the girls 15-17 and they were nervous wrecks that looked like they had been jumped by a gang of deranged hair dressers armed only with the tools of ratting-up and hair spraying hair in to big splendid concoctions of hair. They were plastered in make-up and had their strapped down and tied up to make their bodies more appropriate for public display. One girl in particular was so nervous that she took the planned grip of my wrist and tricep to a hematoma inducing extreme. She was holding on so tightly that she cut off all the circulation to my hand and it was becoming quite painful as I came to the point in our walk where I was supposed to turn her loose. She wouldn't let go and walk her solo turn until I broke her grip with my free hand and both of us stumbled a little. She walked out and then back to me but when she came back I fended off her grip and I held her hand at a distance to save the rest of my tender tissues. The next day my arm and hand had several distinct finger shaped bruises. When the last girl was judged they sent everyone home and I got to take off my stinky head. I was talking with some friends when a girl from the audience came to talk with me. She and I hit it off and we decided to go out when I had a chance to get home and wash the dirty, dirty Micky funk off of my body and change.