All morning I've been plagued by a horrific image: I was ten, and I begged, begged, begged my mom to let me enter the "Little Miss Merry Christmas" pageant in this tiny South Carolina town we were living in. For the talent, I choreographed Snow White en pointe (that I could neither choreograph nor double-pirouette didn't seem to bother me). I wore my Sunday best, teased my hair a bit and slopped on some of my mother's Lancome Rosewood. In the light of the pre-show dressing room, it was clear that I would be discovered that day, plucked off the stage and carried off to Hollywood.
I think there were five of us. Let's just say I didn't win, and I wasn't one of the three runner-ups. If you could be transported to that day, you would laugh until you cried. Really. Until you cried.
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