Sash Number 82

1987 was a defining year: I turned 16, met the boy who would become my husband, and somehow let my family talk me into stepping completely out of my comfort zone by entering the Miss American Coed Pageant. To say I didn't want to do it would be an understatement. But with a little gentle nudging from home, I rationalized that if nothing else, at least it wasn't a traditional beauty pageant—meaning maybe, just maybe, an awkward, self-conscious sixteen-year-old like me actually stood a fighting chance.

Preparation was an entirely new world. Suddenly, I was learning how to stand up straight, watching what I ate to lose a little weight, and working hard to keep my grades up. After all, I had somehow managed to get listed in Who’s Who Among American High School Students—an accolade that sounds terribly important on paper, even if it mostly just meant buying a very heavy book with your name printed in microscopic text and still having zero rhythm.

Upon arrival, I was handed sash number 82, assigned a hotel room, and given a strict schedule of activities leading up to the big night. When I walked in and met the three other girls sharing my room, I couldn't help thinking, What did I get myself into?

Practices were non-stop, and we actually had to perform. I really didn't know how to dance, and stepping out onto that floor made me feel entirely out of my element with my lack of coordination. I spent a lot of time sweating through nervous rehearsals, desperately trying to dry my armpits with the hotel blow dryer in the bathroom between sessions. I felt like a complete mess.

Watching my son play Just Dance today, I often catch myself wishing I had a glowing on-screen avatar to follow back then. But this was 1987—we didn't have a Wii or video game coaches; I was entirely on my own trying to figure out which foot was supposed to go where.

Eventually, I managed to figure out the steps, but I still felt like I was completely out of my depth, wondering if I was the only one whose brain and feet just refused to cooperate.

The big night had finally arrived, and I was pretty nervous, mostly because my nerves had kicked into overdrive and my outfit for the evening was a navy blue shirt that didn't hide sweat very well.

Standing backstage with the hotel hair dryer plugged into the wall, I spent the final minutes before showtime desperately trying to dry my armpits, hoping the damp patches would vanish before I had to face the lights. To calm my racing heart, I popped in a fresh piece of gum, chewing it furiously while listening for our cue to perform our routine to "One" from A Chorus Line.

Between the anticipation, the worry of walking out on stage looking less than my best, and trying to discreetly stash my gum before my name was called, I felt a little overwhelmed. But there was no turning back now—sash number 82 was strapped on, the audience was waiting, and I was about to find out if I could just breathe, smile, and make it through.

During the performance, I happened to glance out into the audience and spotted a family member recording me with a look of mild concern. I briefly thought, Oh boy, I probably look a little ridiculous up here. But I managed to keep my composure, smiled through it, and kept right on going with the routine.

Once the event was over and I finally got to watch the video, I completely understood why they had been staring at me. As the camera panned across the stage and finally zoomed in on my glorious moment, there I was on screen—executing the dance steps while chomping away with all the restless, high-speed intensity of someone trying to break a world record for most gum chewed in a single minute.

Looking back, I realize that the pageant wasn't really about the dancing or the outfits anyway. It was mostly just about surviving a weekend of sheer panic and finding out I could handle the unknown, even when my feet refused to cooperate. That whole experience really taught me how to just face your nerves, chew your gum, laugh at the messy moments, and accept that sometimes you just have to smile and enjoy the ride.

-Jackie