My entrepreneurial spirit and business savvy disposition began at an extremely young age. Younger than most.
I remember waking up at 5 am., walking over to my neighbor’s house, and telling him that he needed to get his butt in gear and come help me make the cranberry juice. (neither of our moms ever had lemonade, so we had to improvise).
It’s a day for introspection, my friends…
Before, after, and during my college years, I was told by many a new agey individual and philosophy teacher that I needed to “discover who I was” or “find myself” or get in tune with “my inner person” or whatever. The only thing about myself that I ever knew for sure was that I liked to write, I liked to make people laugh, and I didn’t want to rush off into marriage and five kids like the rest of my friends had. I didn’t believe in all that inner self crap. So although I was pretty confident that I knew who I was [after living with myself all those years] it sounded kind of entertaining… maybe, I’d find that I was cooler than I’d originally thought?
So as I set out on my self-discovering journey, I realized that trying to find myself was really just a whole lot of “hanging out“ and “gaining weight” and “drinking coffee while having delirious late night conversations” with random other people who also couldn’t find themselves. This all resulted in alot of deleriousness, altering of career paths, meaningless friendships, and relationship choices that would damage me for the better part of my life, which I would inevitably spend undoing all the things I’d done while finding myself. 
Every person who is trying to find themselves thinks that they must live somewhere other than where they are currently living. You cannot possibly find yourself in your hometown, you have to go far, far away. I was no exception to this rule. Even though I’d never been on a plane and I couldn’t even drive to my next door neighbor’s house without getting lost, somehow, some way, one of my meaningless friends talked me into getting out of one of my damaging relationships by moving to Europe… this took place over a late night cup of coffee, of course.
After going away, traveling the world, partially losing my mind, realizing that Italy was all I had hoped it would be, turning down a proposal on the Eiffel Tower, and then coming back with a newfound sense of whatever, I had quite a bit going for myself. I had “discovered” a strapping young British lad who followed me back to states and was quite taken aback by my charming American accent [and the cheap cost of Midwestern living]. I quit college and started my own business. To my dismay, I didn’t then realize that strapping British lads are also quite good at disguising the fact that they are millionaires, heroin addicts and manic depressives. Oh well. I gave it the old college try.
Years later, after seven career changes and two business ventures, I finally became a writer.
So here I am, and after all these years of self-discovery I’ve come to realize the same thing I always knew: I’m a complicated, indecisive, independent girl who likes to write, and all of my experiences have led me back right to where I started.
That sure was a waste of time. But it was fun. Sorta.
Let me start by saying that I currently drive a plum-colored ’99 Saturn with duct tape on the hood. The purpose of the duct tape is to cover an actual hole in my hood that was created when I veered into the shoulder and crashed into a road sign, which fell on my car and poked a hole straight through it.
So heed my advice at your own discretion.
So back to this whole matter of me being in a beauty pageant. Typing that very sentence makes my skin crawl, but you brought it up. Let me first say, that I hate pageants and all the creepy girls and moms associated with them. Okay.
Once upon a time, I was dating a charming young Italian gentleman, who I thought at the time was my long awaited knight in shining armor. Ok. Let’s start over. Once upon a time, before developing my completely pessimistic realistic views on the ways of the world and men, I happened to get the wool pulled over my eyes by an Italian crazypants in preppy clothing who sang in a band.
As most young women who pay their way through private college, I was broke beyond my wildest dreams. The Italian came to the ridiculous conclusion that I should be in a pageant. My immediate protest was stifled by the mention of “but you can win alot of money.” I have a habit of doing things spur of the moment, without much thought or consideration to what said thing will entail, so about a month before the pageant I said, “fine. what do I have to do?”
After having said yes, I recanted my admission; but I was further coerced that it would be no big deal to prepare for. Lies… So big even Satan was shocked. In one month I had to: find a pageant gown, 4 inch clear heels [what am I a stripper?], figure out a “talent” [except I can’t sing, dance, or do anything requiring hand-eye coordination], get a professional picture, learn how to walk in 4 inch clear heels [again. the coordination problem], learn the group dance routine [there’s a WHAT?], get a swimsuit that I’d be comfortable wearing in front of thousands of people, freak out, and actually stop eating enough food for a small lacrosse team so that I could not embarrass myself while wearing the swimsuit.
If my first problem is that I make impulsive decisions, my second problem is backing out of them. I can’t do it. So after one month of freaking out, chewing the Italian a new one, and eating nothing but apples – I competed in the pageant.
My talent? A comedic monologue about my teenage acne. Yes. And you are correct if you are thinking that you’ve never seen anyone do a comedic monologue at a pageant before. I don’t believe anyone ever has. Probably because they can sing and dance like all the other pageant going freaks. Did they love it? Does Giraldo Rivera love his mustache?
Swimsuit competition? You know I rocked that.