It Ain't Easy Being Green

I did not peak in high school.

I was well-liked but not popular. 

I was bright but not brilliant. 

I had unruly curly hair that refused to “feather” and very little sense of style. 

No, I did not peak in high school.

In fact, I like to believe I’ve yet to reach my full potential.

But there was one event, one spectacular performance, one moment in time in Spring of 1983 when I transcended my ordinary 17-year-old existence to mesmerize, inspire and bring an overflowing high school auditorium to their feet. I exceeded even my own highest expectations.

It began with an unlikely decision my junior year in high school. Against my better judgment and countering what everyone who’s ever known me might expect, I signed up to join 31 of my fellow co-eds, most of whom were Varsity cheerleaders or members of the Jazz Team (or both), in Wyoming’s Natrona County Junior Miss Pageant. 

Each evening for a week, we would gather at the high school auditorium and rehearse for the events that would be presented to community members, family and fellow classmates on the coming Saturday night. Our skills would be honed to exhibit all the charm, beauty, talent and personality that existed within us. 

We walked in heels, learned about stage presence and practiced public speaking. We perfected our posture and eye contact with the goal of capturing the judges’ approval and, eventually, endorsement.

Not yet understanding the Junior Miss Code of Conduct, I showed up for the first rehearsal in my favorite Coors Light sweatshirt and was immediately sent home to change. Apparently “Brewed with Pure Rocky Mountain Spring Water” across my chest was less wholesome than the off-the-shoulder Flashdance sweater everybody else was wearing.

I inevitably rolled my ankle during the group dance rehearsal. When the pageant director expressed her concern at the size of my ankle as I lay on the floor surrounded by the onlooking contestants, my best friend told her, “That’s not swollen. That’s just how her ankles are.” Later on, during the actual group dance performance on Saturday night, I would like to have attributed my sad performance to the fact that my ankle was sprained. But, alas, I was just a terrible dancer. I struggled to keep up and with every ball change, chassé and plié, my neighboring dancers’ long graceful arms would fly in front of my face, their  manicured nails grazing my nose. 

I pray every day there’s no video.

If there was a swimsuit competition, I’ve blocked it from my mind. No good can come from holding on to those kinds of memories.

Beyond the disastrous group dance, I remember very little about that evening except for the very last few minutes, which may or may not have been the best in my 17 years.

The final event of the night was the talent competition. Thirty two girls, three minutes each and, for better or worse, I was last on the list to perform. As I remember, about one third of the contestants played piano, another third performed jazz routines and a final third showcased the ballet moves they’d been practicing since they were three years old.

I, sadly, had never had a piano or dance lesson in my life. My list of talents was short, including things like being able to catch a grape in my mouth from 10 feet away and having the neighborhood record for number of pogo stick jumps without falling. Realizing these gifts weren’t the kind to put me on the pageant map, I searched deep to find a talent that would set me apart from my fellow pageant contestants.

I wasn’t a terrible singer and I knew how to play the banjo. 

This was the era of the Muppets and there was no more beloved frog on earth than Kermit. For my talent, I would play the banjo and sing Rainbow Connection. In a homemade Kermit the Frog costume. On the edge of the empty stage. How could I go wrong?

An hour and a half and 31 performances into the talent portion of the pageant, the lights in the auditorium and on the stage were lowered to almost black. A single spotlight shone on the back left of the empty stage.

I waited until the crowd was completely silent and then emerged from behind the curtain dressed head to toe in green. I’d made a fantastic Kermit headpiece and wore a green leotard, green tights and green scuba flippers. I carried my banjo at my side.

The spotlight followed me as I flip-flopped my way to the front of the stage. Upon reaching the edge, I steadied myself on my banjo, lowered my green bottom to the wood floor and tossed my green frog legs and webbed feet over the side of the stage.

The crowd was silent with anticipation.

I positioned my banjo on my lap and began to play.

I was later told that, as I began my solo banjo intro, my green legs hanging over the edge of the stage began to swing slowly back and forth to the rhythm of my song. Apparently, they continued to swing through the entire performance.

My three minutes of fame flew by. I never missed a note. I didn’t forget a word or blow a chord. My voice didn’t shake, I stayed on key and I felt confident throughout the entire performance. I actually had fun. And when I was done, the crowd roared their approval. I had done Kermit proud.

Within minutes of me plucking the last note of Rainbow Connection, the winners were announced and the 1983 Junior Miss Pageant concluded, as did my pageant career. Not surprisingly, my name was not among those on the list of winners. It was the first and last time I would perform on stage.

I’m still not sure if the rousing applause and standing ovation was for me and my brilliant performance or the spontaneous reaction to an excruciatingly long night coming to an end.

I choose to believe the former.