There are not a lot of options for an athletically challenged girl like myself, yet I found a secret talent that did entrench me in the sports-centered world of high school sports. My talent you ask?
I do a mean split jump!
Yes, with the right tarjectory, I am quite the cheerleader. With my split jump and the not-so-well hidden skill of a yelling voice, I became a high school boys basketball cheerleader my sophomore year of high school. Like most athletically challenged girls, I did not have a clue to the rules of basketball. Sure, I knew baskets were good. Other than that, I relied on my keen sense of observation. I watched the clock for the breaks when I would run with the rest of the squad to the center of the court and jump and yell to our choreographed routine. Other times, I watched our cheer captain for when she jumped. So, there I was, the one cheerleader who always jumped two seconds later than the other four girls.
My cheer captain didn't just understand the game of basketball, but she was Miss Teen North Dakota. Really. She was a full-blown, sash wearing, bikini loving beauty queen. The entire basketball season, she would harass me about a makeover. She'd say things like, "Maybe you should, like, do your hair?" Um...I did do my hair. Just because I didn't have humongous bangs and curls galore didn't mean that my sensible bob hair-do was not "done"!!!
Away games were the worst. Miss Teen North Dakota informed the sophomore cheerleaders that we were required to bake cookies for the players. Who was I? Their moms?! Because I didn't have a full-grown backbone until my senior year, I baked like a fool. I baked cookies and was livid when Miss Teen North Dakota showed up with one dozen store bought cookies. For some perspective, I baked over 60.
The bus gave Miss Teen North Dakota plenty of time to plan her attack on my hair and make-up. I was able to fend her off for most of the season, but the final assult occurred at an away game when she said, "If you don't like it, you can wash it off." When her masterpiece called my 16 year old face was complete, I looked like a two-bit who didn't know any better than to let a bully dressed up in a pagent sash practice finger painting on my face. Needless to say, I didn't have time to wash my face before the game.
Miss Teen North Dakota, whereever you are, I am glad to say that I still have a sensible hair-do, still wear some nice, neutral eyeshadows, and touch up my lips with some lovely gloss only when I remember.
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