My husband thinks I’m beautiful. That isn’t too flattering though considering that his supreme standard of beauty is the female alien in James Cameron’s Avatar. Then again, I would probably have a shot at the Ms. Universe crown if Trump acknowledged the audacity of the pageant title and started inviting real otherworldly creatures to compete. If someone like my husband were to be a judge, he’d probably choose the 8 ft. sentient mollusk from Alpha Centauri besides me, the Na’vi representative, as a top contender.
There simply is no chance in my lifetime for Ms. Universe to be redefined and reformatted. I’d have to stay contended hanging around in my evening gown (i.e. nightgown), binging on my third bag of chips while watching nearly absurd vital statistics take on human forms and sashay in heels, the first inanimate object that will soon be convicted of involuntary manslaughter.
There is no bitterness in my system, mind you. My father drilled into my consciousness by the tender age of five that the pageant is like a great big cattle farm where the cattle are paraded, stared at and branded. By the time I grew up to be the shortest in my high school class, he assured me that he will forever be happy that I didn’t grow tall enough to join beauty pageants.
Neither am I particularly scornful of pageants. I like watching grown women tell the whole world how much they espouse world peace. So yeah, I will watch the pageant and enjoy it even if I find that creating “universal” standards for beauty isn’t fair.