Queen for a Night

This is a piece I wrote my sophomore year of college. I've always enjoyed it for its humor. Thought I'd share.

Out of twenty-six letters in the English alphabet, twenty-two appear in my full name, Elizabeth Anne Neiheisel. But nowhere is there a “p.” Every time I wrote an acrostic poem in elementary school, I was eccentric, zany, brainy, and nice, but I was never pretty. With each poem, I would consult the dictionary and thesaurus for additions to the list. Soon I was esoteric, zealous, brash, and naive. My teacher quickly banned my use of these resources, and restricted me to the narrow confines of a third-grade vocabulary. I told Mrs. Conrad she was being “d for despotic,” and stared across the room at Hope. She was pretty. I was not – at least, not in my mind.

I was, however, a tomboy. I wore my hair in braids and pigtails, refused to wear dresses except to church, wrestled with my brothers, tramped through the woods, burped at the dinner table, and refused to wear a bra until absolutely necessary. My mother berated me through my teens for hitting boys. Surveying my scarred legs, she would tease me that I had “ruined my career as a pantyhose model.” For my sixteenth birthday, she hauled me off to the nearest Clinique counter to buy make-up. I still have most of that original make-up in my drawers. In high school, the homecoming committee banned me from the sophomore powder puff football team after I nearly injured the star basketball player in powder puff practice and made her cry. As scholarship and admissions interviews rolled around, my parents pleaded with me to act more feminine. To this day, I loathe sitting with my legs crossed or wearing high heels.

My closest friends have always have been boys. They didn’t care if I painted my nails, wore my hair down or pinned up, or ever put on a skirt. Their acceptance and inclusion of me had nothing to do with appearance – until high school. Puberty hit, hormones raged, and suddenly I wasn’t as important a friend as I used to be. Chick flicks accompanied by the latest skinny cheerleader soon replaced Saturday night action-movie flicks with the guys. Conversations that formerly dealt with football soon turned to relationship problems. “Girls are all so difficult,” a friend lamented. “They spend so long doing their hair and getting dressed, they don’t want to do anything fun for fear of ruining the their outfit.”

“Not all girls,” I countered. “I never do that.”

My friend smiled knowingly and said, “You’re not a girl, you’re Liz.” The comment, intended as a compliment, told me the rules had changed. To be noticed required being feminine, being pretty. I had to prove I wasn’t just one of the guys.

During my junior year of high school, I dated my first serious boyfriend – the first of two in the past nineteen years. Mike rarely told me I looked pretty, even on those few occasions when we dressed up. He rarely noticed anything, though, especially my appearance. Before the night of the prom, I instructed Mike he was to arrive, knock on the door, and, when I answered, tell me I looked pretty. The scene went off according to script, and I smiled to pretend he really meant it.

During my final year of high school, I made a last ditch effort to “act like a girl.” Maybe then I could regain those friends I’d lost so long ago, and prove to them I was more than just one of the guys. I decided to enter the Miss FTS Pageant, an annual event at Fayetteville Terry Sanford High School. The pageant raised money through contestant sponsorships to pay for the junior/senior prom, and I figured the event, though a bit out of character, would be fun. I bought a dress, my first store-bought formal ever, and paraded to the seamstress to have it hemmed. Then I scooted down the main boulevard in town to the local Pic ’n Pay to order the required high heels, dyed to match the dress exactly. The dress cost over three hundred dollars, the shoes just twenty, and I thought I was going to die. Never had I imagined spending so much money on one night, on looking pretty. The law firm where I worked paid my sponsorship fee. The partners smiled, a bit surprised, as they wrote the check and wished me luck with my endeavor.

The night before the pageant, I tramped across our hardwood floors in my shiny purple shoes, twisting and contorting my ankles with every step. My mother yelled, “Quit walking like a boy!” while my sister borrowed my mother’s heels to demonstrate. I was seventeen, she was thirteen, and she walked like a professional. She taught me to turn, to gaze, and to stand, all skills I mistakenly assumed I had already mastered. After tripping on the metal strip between the carpet and hardwood, causing yet another bruise to be hidden by the long chiffon skirt, we sat down to practice for the question-and-answer session. Holding the bottom of her brush as a microphone, Laura asked, “If crowned Miss FTS, how will you serve your school?” I responded in a calm, even tone, “If crowned Miss FTS, I promise to get rid of the incompetent idiot who currently holds the position of principal in this fine institution, and replace him with someone who has a clue as to how to run a school. Thank you!” My mother sighed, my father laughed, and Laura pulled me off the couch to return to practicing my walk.

The following afternoon, after a full bottle of hairspray, a case of bobby pins, and an inch of make-up at the beautician’s, I readied myself for the night ahead. Returning home, I unveiled the purple-sequined gown from its dry-cleaning cover and put it on. I zipped it up, stepped into the matching shoes, and groaned as I realized the gown was still two inches too long. The seamstress had failed to hem it short enough. My mother, a seamstress herself, was furious, and told me to hold my shoulders high and try not to rip the skirt. I obeyed and steadied myself down the stairs to the garage.

I arrived at the school in high spirits, carrying my skirt in one hand and balancing myself with the other. The band room, the “holding pen” for contestants, was filled with girls in breezy, colorful gowns. I surveyed the room and released an inward groan. Girls ran around fretting over their starched hair, adding more hairspray to the already immovable mass situated on top of their heads. They clipped, tucked, dabbed, and blotted, then wished each other luck. Never in my life had I seen so much Vaseline – smeared on the teeth for that sparkling smile – or insincerity. The room looked like the backstage of a Westminster poodle-breeding contest. We even had numbers pinned on our fancy dresses to identify us. All that was missing was a leash to lead us onto the stage. I took a seat and looked again for a friendly face. A friend from church and school had just arrived, Christina Cronrath. She looked gorgeous and was in great spirits. Everyone stopped her and told her how wonderful she looked. Why hadn’t anyone told me that, I wondered.

The evening played out as expected – horridly. I considered running on stage, mooning the crowd, and making a spectacle of myself (as if I hadn’t already). My better judgement overcame me, though the results would probably have been the same. Not only did I miss the coveted crown, I missed the first cuts. Waiting backstage, a girl on the yearbook staff took a picture of me, my elbows on my knees and my fists beneath my chin, pouting profusely. I glared.

My loyal supporters – mom, dad, and little sister – were waiting outside to greet me when I emerged. My eyes surveyed the scene before me – beaming faces, a boquet of flowers chosen to match my dress – and then began to cloud. As is the case with all women in my family, high levels of stress and distress invariably end in tears. So I cried. The mascara so neatly applied just hours before ran down my checks and collided with the pink blush. My parents herded me to the parking lot to avoid stares. My mother put her arm around my shoulder and whispered, “I understand.” My father did not – there were no visible wounds, after all – but did his best to be supportive. We climbed into the family van and headed home.

At the time, even I did not understand why I cried. The pageant was a joke after all, wasn’t it? Now I know. That night I shed the world’s preconceived notion of me, the notion that I just wanted to be smart and athletic and one of the guys. That night I wanted to feel pretty, to remind those guys that I was in fact female. I wanted to punish them for turning on me just when I needed them most. I wanted to punish the girls who had stolen my friends from me. Yet oddly, at the same time, I sought these girls’ approval. I had imagined walking into the room and, in an instant, capturing everyone’s attention and admiration. “The diamond in the rough,” they would call me. That night I had expectations, and those expectations were never achieved. My tears were tears not of defeat, but of disappointment.

Since that night, I have avoided fancy dresses and beauty parlors. Denim overalls, t-shirts, and tennis shoes constitute my favorite outfit, complemented by a neat ponytail and a matching bow, my one indulgence in vanity. I’ve met another guy since Mike, and this one notices me. He tells me I’m beautiful, and I know he means it. So do my parents. They tell me I have a beautiful spirit, beautiful attitude, and beautiful smile. “B is for beautiful,” and there is a “b” in Elizabeth.

"Desiderata" by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrenderbe on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantmentit is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline,be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Planning for the future

A few years ago, during our engagement, Wes did his med school rotation in psychiatry. The doctor who was supervising him knew he was engaged and did a session of premarital counseling as a kind of dual teaching/learning experience. During that session, the doctor asked Wes what the two of us most enjoyed doing together. Wes told her, "Planning for the future." She deemed it the best answer she's ever gotten to that question, and I guess -- after 19 months of marriage -- it's worked for us so far. It seems like a wierd thing to spend your time doing, though -- always looking to the future rather than enjoying the here and now. But it's partly just who we are. I'm a planner -- anyone who knows me, or has even met me for that matter -- knows this. Wes is also a planner, just slower and more deliberate -- and he requires sticky notes in lieu of a Palm. We just like planning. I could plan trips I never intend to take and find it somewhat rewarding. But part of it also the state of our lives. Wes is in a residency program for four years, and we know not a whole lot will probably change during that time. We might, but probably won't, start a family in the next few years. We're likely to live in this same apartment for the duration. He will learn to do new things, develop his craft, and have a real variety of experiences considering his specialty, but it's not like there's a real possibility of us up and moving or him starting something truly new. This is kind of a "gap year" for me, as the Brits calls it. After teaching high school English for three years, I'm on hold to pursue my ultimate career goals -- teaching at the college level -- until I am accepted into and begin a graduate program (March 15 can't come soon enough!). There are other things I'm excited about doing -- maybe some running or triathalon races this summer, maybe some writing (which has been jump-started with all this blogging), but nothing too firm. I know I want to have kids, but that seems like a little ways off for us still. My mother can tell me over and over again that there's no perfect time to have kids, but that doesn't diminish the fact that we don't have the space or the money to have kids. And I realize, too, that I'm making a conscious choice to postpone children in favor of getting an advanced degree. I want to be with my kids when I have them, and that wouldn't be possible if I tried to do both, and I do want both.

Wes and I do get excited about what our life will be like. Wes constantly asks me, "What should we be when we grow up?" or "What do you want to be doing ten years from now?" or "Where should we live after residency?" We like the options given an uncertain future and no immediate need to make decisions. For example, last night Wes was trying to decide if we should be gardeners. His mother is a great gardener; mine is unbelievable, especially with landscaping. We know several families, HP included, that have a veritable farm in their yard and really enjoy cultivating it and sharing it with kids. And besides, I love flowers! (We're trying to decide if Lucy would dig them up, though. Based on experiences at my parents' house, the answer seems to be yes.) It's just funny to try and picture the two of us out in a yard digging in the dirt, as my mother puts it. I like imagining our children and Wes as a father. It makes me smile and laugh. I have a hard time envisioning our future home. Probably because we can't choose what kind of setting we want -- country mouse, city mouse?

The only thing that ever concerns me about this obsession with the future is that we might be missing out on the excitment of here and now. But I think we're okay. We do both work kind of insane hours right now -- part of that planning for the future that includes paying for my master's degree. But we do things, too. We've done more in Chicago than some people who have lived here for ten years. We like concerts (and saw BB King at the House of Blues on Thursday!) -- especially the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. We've seen the ballet and a musical. We like museums. We really like books. We love to travel and really enjoyed our trip to Europe that first year we were dating and more recently to Africa. We like taking walks around Chicago -- when it's above freezing, ideally. We like being silly and seeing friends. We love Second City. We do enjoy life, but it seems like something we have to stop to do in the midst of all the planning!

So how do you balance? I guess that's the eternal question for a lot of individuals and couples. How do you make sure, in the midst of planning, that you live? Everybody has a different answer. For a lot of people, it's watching their kids grow and just treasuring the moments with them, knowing the future will come faster than they might desire. For us, it's laying in bed on the off morning when we can sleep in (since we don't have kids yet!) and playing with Lucy and savoring good meals and company. And enjoying this moment in which we have so many options, so many choices, and seemingly no limits to our happiness.