I was working a trade show at a large hotel in Denver and the lobby was a beehive of activity and fevered anticipation. “We’re hosting a beauty pageant,” the front desk clerk told me breathlessly when I checked in on Thursday. I was instantly skeptical. “What kind of beauty pageant?” I asked. “Who’s sponsoring it?”
“I don’t know the name,” said the clerk, “but it’s big,” and she sighed, visions of tiaras, no doubt, dancing in her head.
As I walked to our meeting room I was alarmed to see that the entire concourse was given over to the beauty pageant, with the exception of our little meeting space at the far end. Our trade show was going to be an island of ordinary in a sea of beauty. I don’t remember the official name of the pageant but it was something like “Miss Teen Trailerpark, USA” and the contestants all wore banners with names like “Miss Great Dismal Swamp, Georgia,” or “Miss Snakebite, Wyoming.”
Friday my coworker and good friend Bill and I set up our meeting. While we were doing this the pageant organizers were setting up too. This consisted of spraying pink glitter over every horizontal surface and tying pink organza bows to anything that did not move, all to the nonstop accompaniment of Lady Gaga.
By Friday evening the girls started to arrive, each with their own entourage, which varied depending on budget. For example, “Miss Featureless Prairie, Missouri” arrived with only her mother in tow while “Miss Toxic Waste Dump, New Jersey” came with her parents, grandparents, a sullen younger sister and someone she called her “image consultant.” Bill and I debated whether or not the image consultant was a drag queen. Bill, who has a wife and three kids in Seattle, was clearly enjoying himself. “Did you see an Adam’s apple?” he asked.
On Saturday morning Lady Gaga was still singing as the girls had breakfast (Melba toast and lemon zest) and our attendees began arriving. Since our attendees were predominantly middle aged men, there was a fair amount of oblique comment and muted anticipation of what the day would bring.
As the day wore on, Bill and I got acquainted with some of the contestants, who were very young and very, very sweet. It was quite obvious that Snookie was their sartorial role model and we started to handicap their chances to take the title. I liked “Miss Citrus Canker, Florida” for poise, but Bill was smitten with “Miss Lesser Salt Lake, Utah” for current events. “She thinks we could end the war by making Afghanistan the 51st state,” he said, enchanted.
Lady Gaga was still singing Saturday night as the pageant began. The girls were backstage but their nervous parents filled the ballroom with anxiety. The mothers looked like they were dressed for a night on the streets and a surprising number of the fathers looked like they secretly wished they could be walking down the runway along with, or perhaps instead of, their daughters.
In the end a dark horse won. Bill thought “Miss Dark Horse, Idaho” won on the basis of her interview, in which she took a brave stand against world hunger, but I felt it was because she fell down during the swimsuit competition, garnering the sympathy vote. Bill and I applauded with everyone else and then hit the hotel bar. “That was fun,” said Bill.
Bill has three teenaged daughters. “What would you do if your girls wanted to enter a pageant like this?” I asked. “I would lock them in their room until they were 30,” he said without hesitation.