I am naturally just kind of weird. I didn’t plan to be bizarre; it’s the kinda thing that just sneaks up on you, like catching mono or getting athlete’s foot. During various points in my short, rather unimpressive life I have attempted to achieve some sort of state of normality. I played basketball (scared people) bought some shirts at the mall (all black) and even tried to put my hair in cute twisty ponytail thingies (had to cut them out). It’s useless. I’ve found that such experimentation with normalcy invariably leads to several casualties and minor property damages. Sad, huh? Perhaps the lowest point of my career came when I decided that my one true calling — my reason for living — was to be a cheerleader.
Quit laughing. C’mon, breathe.Now, there’s nothing wrong with being a cheerleader; I have the utmost respect for people who can flip their legs over their heads, dislocate their shoulders, and still smile and yell. I am not one of these people.
My favorite sport is smoking. But, as a young, impressionable and incredibly uncoordinated dope, I wanted to cheer. My school’s team was the Tigers; the squad was led by a high school girl (Tammi or Brandi — it’s not important) with bangs that stood up sixteen inches and an acid-washed wardrobe. She was my hero. I went to tryouts, fell on the ground a lot, got grass stains on my butt and generally embarrassed myself. Apparently I fell on the ground less than some other people, because I ended up on the team. Our complicated routines consisted of clapping and stomping at the same time (impossible to do) spelling lots of words and jumping around a bunch. Easy enough, right? Hah. I sustained many serious clap-and-stomp injuries, and always had to be on the bottom of the pyramid with a Ked lodged in my behind because I was mutantly overgrown. Fun!
Our uniforms were made from the finest orange polyester, the kind they make body bags out of.
I got to wear two pairs of orange-and-white socks, and horrible pantaloons (granny panties) with humongous tiger prints on the butt (that’s alluring). Our best cheer consisted of mooning the audience and yelling buttocks-related slurs at the other team. The crowd always went wild (mostly our dads, screaming for us to cover up our butts). It was a classy act. Cheerleading was weird; I jumped around and hurt myself and got pompom burn from being smacked by the other girls (I kicked them a lot …. accidentally, I swear). I ended the season with several permanent scars and a “Most Improved Cheerleader” trophy (raising self-esteem is overrated. I hate self-esteem.). They encouraged me to never, ever try out again, for the safety of myself and others. Basically, it was a horrible experience that warped me for life and morphed me into the twisted individual I am today. A twisted individual with an orange polyester uniform in her closet, who can clap-and-stomp in combat boots.
And pictures. I have pictures. Ask my mom.
*Editor’s Note: This column was originally run in April of 1998.