by Mia Mercado
The male escort (LOL) could be a dad, a younger brother, an estranged uncle, a neighbor with poor discretion, pretty much anyone as long as he was male. The pageant organizers were adamant that the escort must be male, as a female escort (LOL x 2) would “pull focus.” We, the preteen contestants with a literal number pinned to our dresses, had to be the hottest or at least only-est female in view! If there was more than one woman on stage, how would the judges know who was the preteen contestant and who was the escort? Which person should they be judging, the twelve-year-old in heels or the fully adult woman in comfortable flats? There would be no way to tell!
If a contestant didn’t have a male to escort her during the formal wear portion, one would be provided. My dad was supposed to escort me during the formal wear event, him in a tuxedo and me in a dress that managed to incorporate both black lace and gold lamé.
Unfortunately, shortly before the judged formal wear event, my dad was unable to find his dress pants. We frantically checked the hotel closet, the hallway, the front desk, the car, but alas, my dad’s pants were gone. (We later found out they’d fallen off the hanger at home.) By the grace of the pants-stealing gods, my dad had been spared the humiliation of having video footage of him escorting me, his twelve-year-old daughter, onstage while “untz untz untz” music throbbed in the background and an emcee butchered my last name.
And yes, we did get a DVD recording of the pageant for me to watch over and over again, like a former high school football player reliving his glory days or an adult woman retraumatizing herself with middle school memories. This DVD is how I know that during the formal wear portion of the public pageant I was introduced as such:
Contestant number 47: Amelia Mer-sah . . . Mer-kay-dough! Amelia is escorted by her friend, Dale . . .
After I told the pageant organizers “my dad forgot his pants,” I was assigned someone else’s dad to be my escort. In the hierarchy of escort appropriateness, Stranger Dad with Pants usurps Actual Dad Without Pants. Mom or Woman of Any Kind is nowhere in that hierarchy.
Dale wore a suit, had a reddish mustache, and looked no more comfortable to be walking arm-in-arm with a female minor than I looked to be walking arm-in-arm with a man I’d just met. Being introduced as “friends” in front of a crowd of strangers, his family, and my family was a new layer of hell we’d unlocked together.
Now, before you get too intimidated by the fact that you may be reading something written by the reigning 2003 National American Miss Pre-teen Wisconsin, let me tell you: I did not win.
Before you wonder, “Okay, but surely you made Top 15, given your natural introversion and poor, twelve-year-old interpersonal skills,” let me go on record and say: I did not make Top 15.
Before you think, “Sure, fine. No big deal. Top 15 out of one hundred plus girls doesn’t exactly put the odds in your favor. But you had to have won Most Photogenic, a portion of the competition your parents paid an extra $50 for you to enter, using more photos Dad took of you leaning against a tree and slouching on the broken swing set in the backyard . . . right?” Let me stop you right now: I did not even get Top 5 Most Photogenic.
Before the life leaves your eyes and hope leaves your heart entirely, begging, “What about Most Spirited? Miss Personality? Best Volunteer Service? Most Promise as a Model? Best Résumé? Most Tickets Sold, given to the girl who sold the most tickets for the pageant? Most Recommendations, given to the girl who referred the most other girls to participate in the pageant? BEST THANK YOU NOTE TO A SPONSOR???” I need to tell you: (1) Yes, those were all actual awards given out and (2) the only prize I won was a participation trophy. I quite literally won nothing. It’s fine, I’m over it, but I still should have gotten at least fourth most photogenic.
You may wonder why I recount this story at all, why I choose to relive this days-long marathon in prepubescent embarrassment, why for the love of God my parents let me do this. While yes, I now have both memories and video footage of me dancing in jean shorts to Aaron Carter, me attempting to walk in heels looking like Bambi on ice, me smiling while linking arms with a dad I’d just met, and me crying on stage after realizing I would not be 2003 National American Miss Pre-teen Wisconsin, I have only now come to realize that I am not what is most embarrassing here.
I am no longer embarrassed for myself, a child with dreams of saying, “You’re watching Disney Channel” while doing the cool, CGI wand thing. I am certainly not embarrassed for the girl who won this pageant and then went on to win more pageants, competing well into her late teens. (I am only a little embarrassed to admit that I still remember her full name and have googled her as recently as this morning. FOR RESEARCH PURPOSES ONLY, obviously.)
I do feel full secondhand embarrassment for the adults running the event. The grown people organizing, hosting, judging, and ultimately profiting from preteens in Kohl’s clearance-wear were by far the most hilarious and humiliating part of the spectacle. There was the aforementioned Pageant Head Mistress Supreme, likely somewhere still screaming about NO SHRIMP COCKTAIL. There was one of the competition judges (different from the woman who’d interviewed me) who was a literal Navy vet with a bachelor’s degree in aeronautical science. So if you’re keeping track, his résumé goes: Pilot, Veteran, Preteen Pageant Judge. Take some time to try to connect those dots however you see fit.
Then there was the pageant host, the woman in, I’m guessing, her early thirties who emceed the public pageant show. A woman who I can only assume is the product of “always the runner-up, never the pageant queen,” which I say with only partial judgment because at least she likely got more than a participation trophy. (Again, not bitter, but I’d still like to know if even one of my peers voted me “Miss Personality.”)
The pageant host was confident with a microphone, knew how to work a crowd, and had a real gravitas when welcoming everyone to the “2003 Minnesota National American Miss Pageant!” We were in Wisconsin.
After the Top 15 were announced, all of the pageant contestants were made to come back on stage. We stood on risers, in numerical order, holding our participation trophies. We tried not to sob as we stared at the back of the heads of the fifteen girls who’d be moving on in the pageant. We definitely sobbed a bunch.
It was during this moment—after ninety-plus girls just found out they lost the pageant they’d been competing in for the last few days—the pageant host chose to perform a song. She, dressed in a dark, strappy gown, hair slicked into a low bun, took the cordless microphone, and the intro to “Wind Beneath My Wings” began.
She, the adult female pageant host, proceeded to spend the next five entire minutes serenading the audience and the Top 15 contestants. She half-consolingly sang to the risers full of preteen girls who just found out they lost the competition. You’re everything I wish I could be, she crooned directly to a dead-eyed girl in a bejeweled A-line dress who refused to so much as smile while this adult stranger sang at her. I could fly hiiiiigher than an eagle, she belted, adding three extra syllables to the word “eagle.” ’Cause you are the wind beneath my wings, she finished while touching the shoulder of a Top 15 girl.
I and the other ninety-some losers were finally able to leave the risers. We sat backstage for the duration of the pageant, watching from offstage as the remaining contestants took a second lap around the stage. We sat in the rows of hotel conference room chairs reserved for this moment specifically. Some of us slouching and sobbing, most of us shoeless, all of us reverting to our natural preteen form.
Afterward, my family, my friend Sami, and I all went to the post-pageant party. There was, as promised, no shrimp cocktail.
Hollywood and Media Representation Presents: How Women Age
Prebirth (A Literal Fetus)
This is when a female has the most power. She is not born yet and is therefore worth protecting and valuing. An unborn female can become anything: a Daughter, a Wife, a Mother, anything!
FAMOUS PREBIRTH WOMEN: Katherine Heigl’s baby bump in Knocked Up; Blue Ivy when s
he was still inside of Beyoncé; whichever daughter Demi Moore was pregnant with when she did that naked Vanity Fair cover
Baby (Three to Twenty-Four Months Old)
In movies, babies of every gender are either not born yet or already a few months old. There is no such thing as a newborn. You will know the baby is female because she wears pink outfits, has bows in her hair, says “Sorry” before she cries, and gets paid less than her male baby double.
FAMOUS BABY WOMEN: the baby in American Sniper; Mary-Kate and Ashley on Full House, Seasons 1–3; Baby Jessica who fell in the well
Toddler (Two to Five Years Old)
The only female toddlers that exist are unusual, cute, dead, or some combination of the three. Try to think of a female toddler who was just normal and boring. You can’t! It’s because there have never been any. Even if you think you remember a time you saw one, you probably just saw a doll or a dog walking on its hind legs and got confused.
FAMOUS TODDLER WOMEN: Mary-Kate and Ashley on Full House, Seasons 4–7; JonBenét Ramsey; Honey Boo Boo
Precocious Kid Detective (Six to Nine Years Old)
There is a brief time in a female’s life where she can have a Male Job. It’s when she’s old enough to ride a bike but not quite old enough to understand first-degree murder.
FAMOUS KID DETECTIVES: Harriet the Spy, Penny from Inspector Gadget, Mary-Kate and Ashley in their Adventures of Mary-Kate and Ashley series
Period (Ten to Thirteen Years Old)
When a Daughter gets her period in secret, she becomes a woman. More specifically, she becomes a woman who could either become a Wife or a Mother. If she gets her period in public, she becomes a Cautionary Tale.
FAMOUS PERIOD WOMEN: Margaret from Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret; Anna Chlumsky’s character in My Girl; Carrie
Virgin (Fourteen to Seventeen Years Old)
Eventually, people will start wanting to have sex with the female. If that female is a Daughter, this is rather unsavory. No one wants to imagine their Daughter having sex!!! That is gross and awful in a way you can’t quite put your finger in, I mean, on.
FAMOUS VIRGIN WOMEN: the Virgin Mary; Disney Princesses (except Jasmine; she definitely fucks); pre-1989-era Taylor Swift
Whore (Eighteen Years Old and Older)
In some instances, the female wants to have sex with other people. This is absolutely disgusting, unspeakable, and should be ignored entirely. (Unless you’re in a private browser window.)
FAMOUS WHORES: Mary Magdalene; me; you; any female who says things like “My body, my choice” or wears skirts and lipstick or uses birth control and isn’t married or lives with a guy or likes girls or dances to Cardi B; Taylor Swift but only in that one horny song; Marilyn Monroe
Hot Mom (Nineteen to Twenty-Four Years Old)
The ultimate dream for every female is to one day become a Hot Mom! Hot Moms have it ALL: great kids, loving husband, work at home, wine, being home all day, gossip with the gals, wine, underdeveloped backstory, big hair, no wants or needs that exist independently of her role as a Mom or Wife, and did I mention wine? Let’s hear it for all the Hot Moms!
FAMOUS HOT MOMS: Connie Britton in the commercials for Friday Night Lights; all the women in diaper commercials; how your dad remembers Christie Brinkley
Regular Mom (Twenty-Five to Thirty-Five Years Old)
She’s just a Hot Mom except a little more approachable. In other words, she swears sometimes and is probably portrayed by Leslie Mann (who is still Hot in an approachable way).
FAMOUS REGULAR MOMS: Leslie Mann in Knocked Up; Leslie Mann in Neighbors; Leslie Mann in This Is 40; oh wait, that was Rose Byrne in Neighbors—which is like Leslie Mann but Australian
Dead Mom (Any Age)
Every Mom dreams of the day when she will become a Dead Mom. Dead Moms are pious. Dead Moms are revered. Dead Moms are used as motivation for male characters’ revenge stories and thought of fondly in a flashback where you only see her legs and the bottom half of an apron. Regardless of the age at which she died, all Dead Moms will be portrayed in pictures/flashbacks by a twentysomething Jennifer Lawrence.
FAMOUS DEAD MOMS: Bambi’s mom; Danny Tanner’s wife from Full House; the Joker’s Mom (We don’t see her but we can just assume they had a tough relationship. Even serial killers deserve some sympathy! Unless they’re women. Then they were probably just on their Period.)
Grandma (Thirty-Nine to Forty-Five Years Old)
At the seasoned old age of thirty-nine, a female becomes a Grandma. Even if she doesn’t have children, let alone grandchildren, she is, in the eyes of Hollywood, a Grandma. Grandmas are similar to Moms except we know even less about their likes, interests, and sexual activity.
FAMOUS GRANDMAS: Danny Tanner’s Dead Wife in Fuller House (Dead Grandmas still count as just Grandmas); Sofía Vergara in Modern Family (Step-Grandma Representation win!!!); Mrs. Claus (she’s actually only forty-one!)
Statue in the Background of a Park Scene (Age Forty-Five Plus)
There are so many opportunities for women over the age of forty-five in Hollywood. They can truly be anything: extras in TV shows; extras in osteoporosis commercials; extras in a music video where they’re sexualized but it’s kinda supposed to be funny; anything! Women forty-five and older are crucial to creating a realistic environment in a movie . . . because they are literally part of the background environment in a movie.
FAMOUS WOMEN WHO WERE STATUES IN THE BACKGROUND OF A PARK SCENE: The “Feed the Birds” lady from Mary Poppins (you thought she was real but she was played by a gargoyle come to life); the Statue of Liberty; whoever your mom’s favorite actress is
Exceptions
These women may appear anywhere, at any time, for any reason, regardless of age:
Helen Mirren
Betty White
Downton Abbey
Old pictures of Marilyn Monroe
Beyoncé
Betty Boop
I’m being told “Downton Abbey” isn’t a person, but you get what I mean (what I mean is that if she’s British, it’s okay)
Jessica Rabbit
Alternative Women
The above almost exclusively applies to white and white-passing females. (Beyoncé is the only exception on account of her being Beyoncé.) Because there isn’t a big enough sample size for actors of color, women who are not white should follow these basic rules of thumb:
Asian women go from young, fuckable porcelain dolls to old, wizened apple cores. There is no in-between.
Latinx women age similarly. However, as a child, they can be the “why not both” tortilla girl. As an adult, they will be described as “spicy” or “hot” or some other word on a Cholula bottle. If they are not hot, then they are “abuela.”
Black women’s age is only discussed in terms of surprise (e.g., Lisa Bonet is how old??!?!!??!).
All nonwhite women may play a housekeeper, nurse, maid, etc., at any age! Wow! Did you see when we said “nurse”? We love women of color in STEM but mostly when they are YOUNG and HOT!
The above specifications apply exclusively to women who are conventionally hot, straight, cis, able-bodied, medium to long hair, at least middle class, no mental health problems (unless it’s daddy issues!), have big boobs that are real, are hairless, have a big butt if that’s still popular, and can eat a whole pizza and still be so thin. If the woman falls into any other category, ugh okay that’s fine we guess, but it must only be for comedy.
Bath & Body Works Is the Suburban Nonsense I Crave
Today, I am here because I “need” candles. This will be the first of many lies I tell myself on this trip.
There is no scenario in which scented candles are a necessity for anyone. Are you performing a séance that only summons demons with a realistic sugar cookie scent? Do you only work by cherry blossom candlelight? Or are you just committed to perpetuating the lie that your home naturally smells like fruity ocean water despite living in a landlocked state and having to google “bergamot orang
e real fruit or just candle smell”? No one “needs” candles, but if you’re gonna come with me on this journey, leave your bullshit attitude about my priorities on that mall bench next to all the disillusioned dads.
This Bath & Body Works is located in a mall next to a Target and a Starbucks. I’m a selfie-stick kiosk away from fully awakening my Inner Soccer Mom. As I cross the store’s threshold, I am harassed by twenty different sugary scents and a woman doling out shopping bags with a T-shirt cannon. The general vibe of Bath & Body Works is “house of funky aunt who always has cake for some reason and keeps reminding you your ovaries have an expiration date.” The store smells like I’m being hugged by every grandmother in America, every nana with a cup of cocoa, every mee-maw with a scalding hot apple strudel. And if you took that last one as a euphemism: welcome. Everything you see and smell at The Works is a euphemism. I’ll look you dead in the eyes while buying a hand lotion labeled “sensual.”
I begin my ritual of huffing anything with a wick within arm’s reach. This is both an effective smell test method as well as an upper-body workout because their candles weigh as much as a newborn. You think a baby smells nice? Try going nose-deep into a three-wick Mahogany Teakwood. If you didn’t come to get high on a Warm Apple Pie votive while douching yourself with a clearance foaming soap, what are you even doing here?
I hear a woman yell, “Ooooh, their seasonal scents are out!” The war cry of my people. There’s a fragrance called Flannel. It’s a cute, wintery smell that’s code for, “We took the deodorant-laden armpits of your ex-boyfriend’s T-shirt and infused them with hope, pining, and actual pine. Basically, you’re about to drop $22.50 on a candle that’ll make you sad and horny at the same time.”