Why I Would Never Win a Beauty Pageant

Winner of the last beauty pageant I ever entered.  

(He totally beat me in the bathing suit competition.)

Day 13 --  Today I told someone else about this blog of mine, this crazy goal to eat chocolate and a cookie and drink a glass of wine and coffee every day this year. (I am not frightened of that part of my resolution at all -- that part is easy!) What scares the bejesus out of me is this idea that I will have something different to write about for, omigod, 352 more days, (not counting this entry. )

The person I told was my dear friend Liz who is such a darling she supports nearly everything I try to do. I could say, "hey Liz, I am going to start a new business making crochet pot holders.  For squirrels."  And she would be like, "oh, what a creative idea!  You should write about it!"  The thing is, Liz has been encouraging me to write for like as long as I have known her, long before internet blogs even existed on the world wide web.  (Actually, I am fairly certain there wasn't even a public access internet when I met Liz.)  There was, however, indoor plumbing.

So when she called out of the blue today, I made the decision to send her the link to this blog.  Including Liz, that makes three people in total who know about it above and beyond my immediate family.  Now that I have a crowd (ha) I decided I should spruce up the site a little, maybe add some comments in my profile.  But when I clicked on the edit page and got down to the topics, I froze.  I read the first topic -- personal interests.  My mind started to process the question.  A few random thoughts came out like yoga, watching raindrops make their squiggly paths down a window... and then, nothing.  Total blankness.  I mean, I like um, uhhh, lots of things!  Lots and lots!  But could I identify any of them specifically?  Absolutely not.  Favorite movie?  Random thoughts?   A random question?  Crap.  I had nothing.

And this is why I would utterly fail in a beauty pageant.  Besides the fact that I have never been able to walk in sexy, high heel shoes without looking like the Leaning Tower of Pisa in the middle of an earthquake,  I would completely suck when it came time for the personal questions.  (Or my personal favorite, the "what is your dream?" question.  I think I would puke if someone asked me that on stage.)    I don't know why, but it happens to me all the time.  (The paralysis when I am asked personal insight questions, not the beauty pageant part.)  For example, say I am reading a really good article in my Oprah magazine about how to find your inner talent.  (There are like, a million articles in Oprah determined to help you find your inner talent, social goodness, life skills, inner dreams, perfect underwear, yada yada yada.)  Usually I am reading along, nodding excitedly at relevant sentences and underlining important comments.  Then I turn the page.  And my heart drops down into my stomach.  There, before me, is the deal-breaker,  the horrible page with the questions and the lines where I am supposed to answer all of my inner, ultra-aware personality insights.  Bravely, I pick up my pen to fill out the questionnaire.  All I have to do, I tell myself, is answer these questions and, like the rising sun casting its bright light on the Mojave Desert, all mysteries will be revealed.  So what do I do?  I panic.  My palms get sweaty and my stomach flips.  And slowly, carefully, I put down my pen and turn the page again.  Another day, I tell myself.  I'll come back and fill it out when I have more time.

So what is the problem?  What am I so afraid of discovering with this effort at self-discovery?  That I am not worthy of such analysis?   That I am a boring human being with a personality as vibrant as the lone walnut left in the fruit bowl after the holiday party? Ahhhhhh. I do know that I have more personality than a walnut.  I think.  Then what is this issue of mine that keeps me from analyzing and exposing my interests in a tiny 1 by 3 inch box or on the 10 lines provided by the invisible questioner?  I honestly don't know.  I just hate doing it.  I do realize there is something utterly diagnosable about this revelation.  A psycho-therapist would probably have me nailed in seconds, peering at me over his cheater glasses and tapping his pen on the side of his clipboard.  But I am clearly not a psychotherapist and, quite frankly, I don't want to know why I don't want to know too much about myself...for the moment anyway.  When it is time for me to learn, I will know how to fill out the little boxes.  And all will be revealed.  I think.