Disillusionment

This started as a bulletin on MySpace... but it got very long and I spent quite some time on it, so I felt like it warranted a more permanent home... So without further ado, here is my crushed and somewhat angry rant about professional cheerleading and the hopelessness of my place in it.


So I had my first cheer clinic today, although it was really just dance. And a hell of a workout. I sweat through every fiber of my sports bra and drenched the waistband of my sweatpants, pretty much sweat like a pig in general. Learned a new prep for pirouettes that's easier, so that's good, seeing as I still can't land a solid double and need to be able to do so in four weeks.

Four weeks. Tryouts are in four weeks and I am no closer to landing a spot on the squad than I am to passing the bar exam. The clinic today only affirmed for me that, no, I cannot dance. Apparently I can "move my body like a cyclone," but picking up choreography in a hurry... well let's just say I'm doing better with my first math class in two years. It was downright embarrassing how many times I tripped over my two (or was it three??) left feet or blanked a count or two altogether. All in all, I looked like a total idiot out there among all these experienced dancers with their tight little butts, pretty faces and perfect blonde hair... not to mention their ability to spot turns and kick themselves in the face with their backs straight.

But here's the really sad part, aside from me being a miserably awful dancer with rapidly vanishing hope of ever achieving my dream. The beauty focus for that team - the Sea Gals - is absolutely ridiculous. The coach told me, flat out, that if I made the team (which I obviously won't - I don't think I'm even going to try out for this squad anymore, stay tuned as to why) that I would have to get a spray tan, at least for every photoshoot, and presumably every performance.

Uhm, it's SEATTLE. Get with the program, lady. We're not exactly sunshine capital of the fucking world, and not everybody even looks good with a tan.

But that's not all. The team has to wear fake eyelashes for every performance, have their nails professionally done at all times in case they have to sign autographs, and sign an agreement stating that they will remain within three pounds of their agreed "ideal" weight at all times. If they get out of that range the first time, it's two weeks probation, i.e. they must still go to all practices, but are not allowed to perform. The second time it happens, they get kicked off the squad.
One third of what you are judged on at tryouts is how pretty you are.

IT'S A FUCKING SPORT!

Yeah, cheerleaders "should" be pretty, but fuckin' A. And people wonder why eating disorders and self-esteem issues are so rampant in our country. I pretty much wanted to throw up and buy a tan airbrush after I left the clinic... well, and then kill myself, because my chances of making the team dead or alive are about the same. So much for my dream.

But this is what I think is so sad. To get on the team at all, you have to be a kick-ass dancer. Something I'm clearly not. But for the girls that do make the team, that's not what is even emphasized. The big thing, in the coach's exact words, is to "look amazing all the time." It's like it's a beauty pageant or something! Honestly! No one looks amazing all the time! I bet even Kate Moss has her days when she wakes up, looks at herself in the mirror, and thinks, "Whoa, what the....? EW." Everyone has those days. Everyone gets the flu once in a while and looks god-awful for a couple of days. That's part of the human existence.

But wait, what was that about being a kick-ass dancer? OH! I forgot! It doesn't seem to matter much once you're on the team. You had to be a great dancer to get there, but once you're there, all that really matters in that you look smokin' hot all the time. And with all the fake tans and eyelashes and booty shorts, what do you think your average shmoe in the stands in going to notice about you? Your spot-on triple pirouette and your awesome high kick, or your pretty face, your nice ass, and the impressive surface area of skin you're baring while barely avoiding indecent exposure? That's all that's really going to get noticed, unless said average shmoe happened to drag his classically trained dancing daughter to the football game. I hope those rare ones in the audience give the average shmoes a kick in the boner now and then.

This whole glamorous ideal really takes away from the appreciation of cheerleading as a sport. IT'S NOT EASY. If all it took was a pretty face, a hot body, and enough strength to pick up and wave around a pom pom, there wouldn't even BE tryouts, and I wouldn't be slaving over double pirouettes in my dining room, trying not to crash into tables, or doing toe-touches inside the house, scraping my knuckles on the ceiling until they bleed. Literally. I have so many bandages on my right hand that it's virtually useless. Typing is a pain in the ass. And I wouldn't be practicing my routine in the parking lot at midnight, using my shadow from the streetlights behind me as a mirror to see if my technique needs any work, all the while hoping that no creepy rapist is waiting in the bushes for me to bend over after my set of pique turns. And I wouldn't be teaching myself ballet from YouTube for lack of a real teacher, pausing and rewinding over and over until I'm sure I know what the real steps are. Even with all this, I'm still a lousy dancer, and I guess it doesn't matter, because even if I was and I could land a perfect double pirouette, if I was the most flexible and spirited girl at tryouts, I wouldn't be pretty enough for them. I'm too white, my skin is hideous, and imagine they don't think I have that elusive pretty face either.

So, there's an inside look into professional "cheerleading." Not a pretty picture, I think. More like a big, flashy poster for barbie dolls and bulimia.

That's NOT what cheer is supposed to be about. It's supposed to be about spirit, pride, and, of course, dance ability. But it's not Miss USA. It shouldn't be, anyway, but that's what it is, at least on this team. Fuck the NFL. It's stereotypical and sexist. Big, sweaty men that beat the shit out each other and sideline eye candy that has to be perfect and hot all the time, and are required to have all this talent and well-spokenness... that no one will ever notice, because they're too busy staring at the tits and ass.

I don't think I want to even buy into that. True, that's just the Sea Gals, and the UW tryouts are a totally different matter. It's the UW squad I really want to be on anyway. But aside from the disillusioning revelation of how sick NFL cheerleading is, I still got a slap in the face today, as I was reminded by the dance, that really wasn't all that difficult, that I am, and likely always will be, a terrible dancer.

Cheerleaders are GOOD dancers. I might as well dig the bondage pants out of the bottom of my closet, because this dream is as good as dead.

Option 1, I choose YOU! For now, anyway.

Well, after writhing in misery for the last three days - that's option 2 - I decided that maybe a reversion to Option 1 - allowing my OCD to defend me against the misery - would be a good idea for a little while considering the severity of the situation. So, as much I hate/am ashamed of writing these stories, I decided to write one anyway, except, instead of representing the pain-inducing situation through Tory as usual, I would actual use her to represent my character specifically in the struggle. So this isn't anything close to what actually happened, but I wrote it so that she's going through the same sort of pain that I was, yet within the parameters of her character. I also made a point to make it seem like she was getting ridiculously upset over a really little event... well, I don't think I even need to explain why THAT'S significant!

So without further ado...

An Excessively Guilty and Overly Ashamed Conscience, or Let It Go…very, very loosely based on a true story. October 1994.

I walked around to the back of Karl’s house, looking for a suitable object to throw at his window. Finding a rubber ball presumably left by one of his many siblings, I tossed it upwards and thought gratefully that I had a decent sense of aim. Presently Karl appeared at the balcony and came down to meet me.

“Hey babe,” he said. “I thought you were with Rachel. What happened?”

“Something bad,” I said, giving him a hug and trying not to cry.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” He asked, and I shook my head. “Is she?”

“No, Rachel didn’t get hurt either,” I said. I gave up and cried anyway.

“Aww, baby… well, come on inside, you wanna try and tell me about it?”

I walked with him up the stairs; his arm around my waist was making me feel a little safer, although it always made me nervous coming to his house unannounced, hence my habit of throwing rocks at his window. Once we were in his room, I picked up the red and black fleece blanket from the foot and his bed and held tight to it, trying to banish my guilt. It wasn’t going to happen. Karl sat down next to me and rubbed my back.

“What happened?” He asked again.

I buried my face in the blanket. “I threw up in front of Rachel,” I said. “She freaked out… I mean, she didn’t kick me out or anything, I just couldn’t stay there anymore, I felt so bad about it…”

“Why? That’s not so bad.”

“Well… I couldn’t make it to the bathroom,” I said. “It’s been so long since I’ve done that… it’s only when I get motion sickness, otherwise I can control it…”

“That’s alright, baby, it happens to everyone once in a while.”

I couldn’t stop crying now. The guilt was just making me feel sick again, and I couldn’t do anything to make it go away.

“I know, it’s not just that!” I said. “It was so scary, the look in Rachel’s face, like it was her fault…”

“That’s crazy, why would she think it was her fault?”

“Well because she was driving I guess… she doesn’t have her license yet, so she was nervous enough about that… but her car is a stick like yours, but she’s not as good at driving it as you are, plus she was scared to death to get pulled over, so she was driving like a grandma, pumping the brakes all the time and everything.”

Karl suppressed a laugh, probably amused by the unlikely thought of Rachel driving like a grandma. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be laughing,” he said. “I know that kind of driving makes you sick faster. She probably wasn’t thinking about that, though.”

“Yeah… she didn’t even know until we were almost there.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t tell her, would you?”

“What difference would it make? I would have gotten carsick anyway. That’s not the point.” I sniffled. “Well she asked me something, but I didn’t answer right away cause I was just breathing, trying to settle my stomach… and then she asked what I was doing, so I told her I was feeling carsick, and she just said something like ‘don’t puke in the car, that’ll look really bad if I got pulled over,’ so I told her I wouldn’t. But when we got to her house…” I couldn’t talk anymore for crying so hard.

Karl hugged me and tried to get me to relax, but it was useless. “Do you have a tissue?” I asked. I was afraid I was going to get snot all over his blanket. He gave me one and told me to keep talking.

“Well I told you,” I said, “I didn’t make it. I got as far as the top of the stairs, but then I couldn’t hold it.” I held tighter to the blanket and dug the fingernails of my other hand into my palm, trying not to scream. “Rachel completely froze… I told her I was so sorry, but she didn’t say anything, just stared at me… I felt so bad for her; she had no idea what to do… I think she finally said something about not realizing I was so sick, and asked if I was okay… I told her I’d be fine, I’d clean it up… she didn’t answer, just sat down, I think she might have been crying…”

I stopped and held my breath, and shifted my attention to my fingernails. I wanted to punish myself for putting Rachel through so much trouble, and at the same time, I also felt guilty for causing Karl trouble. He was probably right, I probably was making too big of a deal out of it, but I couldn’t help it… that was just the way I was.

“Huh,” said Karl. “Is Rachel scared of puking? Cause that would explain a lot.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t think so. She told me once, though, she’s scared of… being responsible for people, doesn’t want them dying on her watch or something like that.”

Karl raised his eyebrows. “Dying? Come on, you just got carsick, jeez.”

“I know…” I found it a little ironic that he was saying this now. I had said almost the exact same thing to him when he was going ape-shit about me making myself throw up on a road trip to get it over with. “Yeah, so it’s a little extreme, it’s just some phobia of hers I guess. I just feel so bad for freaking her out like that! Not to mention it was embarrassing! I’ve never thrown up in front of her at all, let alone on the floor!”

“Baby, don’t worry about Rachel, she’ll be fine. Everyone has their fears, she’ll get over it. She’s probably over it already. You’re here, you’re not her responsibility anymore. It’s probably one of those things you don’t think about once it’s over. Besides, she has her mom to take care of her if she’s still freaked out. That’s more than you can say.”

“Oh God, her mom… she’s gonna have to finish cleaning… oh my god, she’s probably gonna get mad at Rachel, and—”

“Tory. Rachel’s mom is a nurse. I bet she could clean up puke in her sleep. I’m sure it’s no big deal.”

“I guess,” I said, wiping my nose again and trying not to choke on myself. I wished I’d been able to stay long enough to finish cleaning like I’d said I would, but I couldn’t stand to watch Rachel sit there, frozen in uncertainty any longer. The tears resurged, and poor Karl scooped me up and tried to get me to lie down.

“Baby, let it go!” He said. “Rachel will be fine. Her mom will definitely be fine. Now I just need to make sure you’re going be fine.”

“I am,” I wiped my swollen eyes. “I feel better now.”

“That’s good,” said Karl, and he kissed my cheek. “Now you need to relax.”

I was still crying. I didn’t know how to make the guilt go away. I wanted to go back to Rachel’s house right then and tell her I was sorry, but she probably didn’t want to talk to me.

“Shhh…” said Karl. He pushed my hair out of my eyes and kissed me again. “I love you,” he whispered. “I hate seeing you like this… please believe me… it really is okay. I’m sure everyone will be fine. Let it go, Tory. Breathe, sweetheart. It’s okay.”