Since I lived in Denver for 3 years, I always enjoy going back - even for an extended layover when I'm on my way back to my hometown in Nebraska. On my last trip I got one night to live it up in generally make poor decisions in Colorado. But, as with any impromptu trip, you're at the mercy of your company. And in this case, my friend Lindsey had already agreed to be a judge in a children's beauty pageant that was being held at a Ramada in the suburbs. So, what's a boy with no car to do but tag along?
Don't get me wrong. I was elated. I love anything that feels like a live episode of The Office - that feeling of awkward dread, yet pity, mixed with superiority and general sadness. This place had the potential to elicit a cornucopia of emotion.
We got there an hour early so Lindsey could judge the girls' headshots prior to the competition. I had assumed such beauty shots had ceased to exist outside of the midwest circa 1989, but no, the soft light filter business still thrives in the suburbs of Denver, Colorado. Each girl had brought their version of a senior picture no matter the age bracket in varying degrees of suggestive dress. They all looked the same to me, but then I'm not easily seduced by prepubescent sirens.
I had nothing to do, so I retired to the sports bar for a beer, spent an hour watching the mishmash of locals and businessmen and off season sports on ESPN, then went back to conference room C. This is when my life changed forever. The woman running the pageant grabbed my arm, pulled me to the front of the room, and said, "Come on. You're gonna judge. We're short one." So before I knew it, I was sitting at a folding table facing a stage that could barely fit the huge plastic trophies.
I got to work judging the girls from 1-10 on "community service." Such selfless acts included"Sold cookies at a bake sale" and "Modeled in an event where all proceeds go to charity." It all reminded me of the time Mother Theresa modeled in that fashion show. 'Member? It was an arbitrary process. I couldn't bring myself to circle any number below 7 and it was all such inconsequential nonsense that I might as well have been ranking my favorite Disney Channel sitcoms.
Then came the real treat. 4 and 5 year olds walking out on stage in tiny puffy dresses to Kesha's "Tik Tok." For them, the party don't stop. They were absolutely adorable, no doubt, but there was nothing to judge on but how cute they were. I'd been briefed before of course as to criteria, but they were on stage for a total of 20 seconds each. So I picked the cutest one or the one I felt the most sorry for. It was at this moment that I realized that I was terribly unqualified. I know nothing of fashion or make-up or whether your 5 year old daughter's G-string should be visible.
But it was still cute.
What wasn't cute was what followed. The pageant apparently included girls - nay women - of all ages. Two girls even made up an age bracket that I can only assume was outlined in the official rules as "22 to infinity." One poor girl with gums for days and nicotine-weathered, wiry hair strutted onto stage wearing a faux velvet dress with fringe and sequins. She was well past 30, verging on 40. It was just too much. I gave her as high of ranks as I could justify, but this was clearly not her forte. Her Miss America registration window had passed. Personally, I was just nervous that she forgot to crack the window of her Sentra for her cats. I wish confidence could be administered in pill form.
In between each section, one of the contestants read the bio of a different judge. The first judge's bio was a good 3-4 paragraphs long detailing past loves and children and a stint in regional theater... Lindsey's was 3-4 sentences that we had written in the car on the way there, filling it with nonsense like "Lindsey has a passion for Thai cuisine." When in reality, Lindsey has a passion for Happy Hour fish tacos. It was a pageant of sorts for the judges as well, which I obviously lost when they read the bio that I'd hastily penned: "Todd works in Entertainment & Syndication in New York and is looking forward to seeing the amazing young talent today." I turned bright red when they read it. I didn't even say what colleges I'd attended or my favorite brand of toddler mascara.
At the end, all of the girls stood on stage awaiting whatever trophy they received. They all got one. Nobody went home empty handed, which is kind, but you still probably felt like a nimrod if you took home a trophy for "best community service" - which might has well have been an honorary certificate for "most bulimic in 5-10 years."
Then it was just over. A ham of a girl with red curls turned on an iPod and all the girls mingled with the crowd like celebrities hobnobbing with the creme de la creme of the Ramada off I-25 across the street from the Cracker Barrel. (Mmm... Cracker Barrel.) But hey, some of them got savings bonds which will mature to a full $100 in 50 years when it will be worth the equivalent of 25 cents today. Not too shabby.
I did my best though. Circling numbers is hard. I judged that sucker with the straightest face I could keep like a champ. And all I got was this silly blog entry...
