It's Not About the Pom-Poms by Laura Vikmanis

Author:Laura Vikmanis [Vikmanis, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-345-53291-6
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2012-03-20T04:00:00+00:00

Check out the helmet hair.

At the finals the other girls weren’t as friendly as they had been before. Everyone was in competition mode. They weren’t going to tell me if my hair made me look deranged.

The judges included funk musician Bootsy Collins, local meteorologist Steve Raleigh, former Ben-Gals, and restaurant owner Jeff Ruby—all sitting at long tables at the back of the gym. Charlotte explained that the judges would tally us on several categories, including glamour, physique, showmanship, and skill set. “Each category will be worth five points,” she said. “At the end we will tally all of the judges’ scores. The bathing suit competition works differently, however. That is just a ‘yes’ or a ‘no.’ ” I could see Bootsy Collins scrawling No funking way! when he got a load of me.

For the dance we went two by two, most of the rookies paired with veterans. My partner was Latasha, an African American woman who was much taller than me. Because the dance was hip-hoppy, I was intimidated. Everybody was watching—and there was a camera crew taping the whole thing, with bright lights. But thanks to Marija and Courtney’s help, I remembered the steps. When I finally finished I wanted to burst into tears out of relief.

For the bathing suit walk I put on my high heels, darkened my makeup, and sprayed my hair so it was even bigger. Everyone lubed up their legs and bellies with oil and put on jewelry. We went one by one past the judges.

There was so much to remember. Chest up. Don’t trip in your heels. Make sure your bathing suit isn’t riding up your butt. Suck in your stomach. I tried to move to the music but didn’t want my flesh to jiggle. The judges were only a few feet from me, and I saw their eyebrows go up when they got a look at my hair. Some of them winced. I walked all the way down to the end of the room and noticed Charlotte standing there. She nodded just slightly. Even though I had helmet hair she thought I had done okay. My aging body had passed muster. As I turned around I saw a guy on the floor with a camera and realized he was filming me. My saggy thirty-nine-year-old butt had been right in the lens.

When each girl finished, we stood in rows of five while they stared at us. Then Charlotte said, “Turn around,” and we all turned around. Clench your cheeks but not too tight because if you do, your cellulite pops out. Arch your back. Don’t tuck your butt under or it will sag.

Twenty years ago I had been at Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum auditioning for the L.A. Clippers Spirit. I remembered the dreams I had had for myself at nineteen, the optimism I had felt about the future. I never imagined back then that I would marry a man who abused and belittled me. Some of my dreams for myself had come true—I had

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