In A Pickle

Miss America 2013

In A Pickle

At the time of His crucifixion on a not so good Friday many centuries ago, Jesus wore a crown of thorns. I'm sure that little fashion statement wasn't His choice. Nothing could be more uncomfortable. Granted, the plus side of that particular model of crown would be that there is little chance of having it slip from one's head.

Which brings to mind the Miss America pageant that I watched on television some time ago.

Whenever they crown a Miss America, that sparkling tiara almost always falls off the winner's sleek blonde hairdo. OK, Miss America isn't always blonde, but let's not quibble about stereotypes.

As the story normally unfolds, once the losers have been announced as "runner-ups," the winner goes into a kind of hysterical seizure while we watch last year's Miss America attempt to pinch and bobby pin a crown of glitter on the new Miss America's head. At times, I have to wonder why they don't just use a staple gun. Maybe there's some concern that a staple to the back of such a beautiful head might leave a mark, despite all indications that, more often than not, we're dealing with a cork skull. Perhaps a hot glue gun would be better suited for the task.

I know. I'm being unkind to the beauty pageant world. Lord knows it's a thankless job with few perks and no retirement benefits other than repeated appearances on The Shopping Channel.

Pageant girls start early in life, and before the age of five, they are dressed in frilly clothes and made up to look like Church Street hookers. I don't really know if there are hookers on Church Street in your town, or even in my town for that matter, but I like the image it creates. Smacks of irony, don't you think?

At any rate, in the world of beauty pageantry, thousands of young girls are dragged from town to town, city to city, where they compete in one beauty contest after another, all for the glory of wearing a crown.

As the years go by, these girls lose their front teeth and watch their bodies go berserk. Most grow up and become ordinary looking young women, get married, have babies, and some time around menopause, file for divorce or become United States senators. A select few somehow sustain that Hollywood, starry-eyed "beauty" and continue along the road to regalia, adding such titles as Miss Kentucky Korn Harvest or Miss Purina Gravy Train to their resumés. Eventually, the most successful girls go on to the really big beauty contests — first the Miss Teen America pageant and then, of course, the grandest event of all, the Miss America pageant.

Once in a while, one or two pageant girls are murdered. But that's another story for another time.

We like crowns. But that doesn't mean just anyone gets to wear one. If you were the Queen of England, you would have a crown, and you could wear it any time you pleased. Off to the ballet? Wear a crown. Out to Sunday brunch at the Holiday Inn? Wear a crown. Suffering a bit of constipation and spending most of the day on the loo? Well, why not? Wear a crown. Of course, from my experience, Queen Liz II of England doesn't often wear a crown at all. I suspect she worries about being mistaken for Miss America.

Now, if you're President of the United States, you wouldn't dare wear a crown. People would worry that you were getting uppity, a tad too arrogant, and just a bit too full of yourself in a country that believes itself to be a democracy in which all men and women are told that they are created equal, except at income tax time. So no crown for the President. Seems a shame really. The leader of the most powerful country in the world should have some distinguishing garb. Maybe a cape would work? Or a rodeo-sized belt buckle? Perhaps a buckskin coat with a nice fringe and a quiver full of feathered arrows with a bow strapped to his back? Must be something.

I confess that I have often had dreams of wearing a crown. Sadly, it's never a gold crown, never a regal coronet of rubies and diamonds. For the most part, I wake up to the horror of finding myself wearing a crown of gherkins. I'm never sure why that is, but I'm sure the symbolism doesn't escape you.