"Ashamed of nuthin'"
There it was. A full page ad announcing an open tryout for the world famous Buccaneer cheerleaders. And the golden opportunity for "Girls Behaving Badly"-style gag.
In case you don't know it, I am a woman of...hmmm, how to put it?...ample proportions. Not exactly causing an earthquake when I run, but still. And, as I am almost ten years older than the average Buc cheerleader, my pom-poms are riding a bit lower than they did when I was in college. I could just imagine the incredulous uproar that would surely be caused if I turned up to audition with the rest of the golden girls of Tampa. Something at least along the lines of letting a mouse loose in a cathouse. No pun, or offense, intended.
The column was already writing itself in my head. Heck, why stop at that? The real "Girls Behaving Badly" was accepting audition tapes; I could parlay this into a move to broadcasting fame and fortune. Who could I get to film this funny fiasco?
But, first I needed a wingman. You know, that friend you can lean on when you are about to put yourself on the line, and you need someone to steady your resolve, bolster your confidence, and, in case the whole thing blows up in your face, help you fold up your bruised ego and drag it back to the shelter of the nearest barstool. Men use them all the time, a time-honored traditional role of the best friend. If you look up at happy hour and see a guy striding, sidling, or otherwise trying to subtly get himself in a position to make your acquaintance, look about 6 feet behind him. That guy over there, the one casually sipping his Sam Adams while at the same time watching you and your new friend like a deacon watches the collection plate? The wingman.
I knew just who to call. My BB--best buddy. One of the main names on my best friend list, we've known each other so long, we can't even remember all the dirt we've got on each other. Similar senses of humor, always have a lot of fun together. In the old days, we were often on some Lucy and Ethel lark, and even though she's married now with a fabulous career that leaves her constantly swamped in work, we still manage to get out and have some fun now and then. I just knew that this was a joke she'd love to be in on.
I called up and made the pitch. "Forget it!", came the rather sharp reply. I admit I was a bit shocked. I explained myself again, thinking maybe she didn't understand that all she had to do was ride along, while I perpetrated the fraud, and afterwards, a nice lunch at Satsuki, maybe a spot of shopping. Again though, the rebuff. "I am not going anywhere just to watch you get ridiculed!" I was taken aback. She sounded almost mad at me.
Was I off the beam? Was I doing something wrong? I sounded out a few more people. I phone up my Ivy league-bound little sister (I love saying that), who, by the way, is herself gorgeous enough to be a walk-on at that tryout. "I can't even imagine why you or anybody else would bother," she said of my pom-pom adventure, "but let me know, and I'll drive down and go with you." Another friend whose name appears prominently on the 'best' list also offered not only to go with me to the tryout, but line up a few more oddball attendees to round out the anti-cheer squad ("now if we could only find a transsexual who can do the splits"). She too, saw the vast comic potential of my idea.
However, the desertion of BB still bothered me. We had been friends since, god, I'd be terrified to have to count the years. Why wouldn't she support me, fly along on my dive bomb of the cheer-ocracy? I had always been right along with her whenever she needed me. Why the sudden about face? Then, I sat through
'Mean Girls' for the third time (great flick!). Cady had just finished her powwow with unpopular Janis, who had to get lost quick, lest Cady's newly budding popularity be tarnished by association. That's when it hit me. BB was ashamed of me. What other explanation could there be? She claimed she 'didn't want to watch me be ridiculed'. But the fact was, she didn't want to run the risk of any ridicule rubbing off on her. The popular girls were gathering, and she didn't want to be associated with the geek, in this case me.
I fumed, I fretted, I worked myself up into a fine froth. I sought the solace of the good advice of another pal of mine. I poured out the tale, my theories, my hurt. And from her I got the best piece of advice I'd heard in a long time. "Hon, let it go." What!!??
"This is her issue, not yours," she intoned. "Look, not everybody has the nerve you do. Not everybody is as comfortable with themselves as you are. For some reason, and I can think of a few, this little excursion pushed her buttons. Just let it go. It doesn't mean she doesn't love you, isn't your friend or is ashamed to be seen with you. You want to question 15 years of friendship over this?"
One of my favorite movies is "The Women", an inventive and well-written yarn of society women from the 1930's. When Paulette Goddard gives a bit of advice to Norma Shearer about getting her husband back she tells her that "love ain't ashamed of nuthin'," as sound a piece of advice as I ever heard. I try to be right there for my friends, my family. But, even I have some dragons that are too big to beat down, not even to help out someone I love with all my heart. So I can kind of understand.
And besides, with someone who has made so many years' worth of deposits into the bank of friendship, I can't possibly let this one little thing cause it to become overdrawn.
