The clerk at the Holiday Inn looks me up and down and asks me if I’m here for the Miss America pageant.
“Yes.”
He winks. “You’re competing?”
I roll my eyes. The lobby smells like bleach and floor wax.
It’s obvious I’m not competing. It’s so obvious that it’s become a running joke. I tell my friends I can’t hang out the night of the pageant which is also my 37th birthday because I’ll be at the pageant. “Why?” they ask. “I’m competing,” I say. They all laugh. Everyone laughs too hard at this joke. Even my mom responds to my joke by reminding me that my sister Cathy would have done well in a pageant. I think she means blonde, busty, and super good at makeup and hair. It still hurts a little.
Read Full Article »