8:47 a.m. - 2010-11-05
The Sweater
My uncle worked for Catalina and, my thirteenth summer, was able to score me one of the official sweaters used in the Miss America contest. It was soft, lush and the color of sushi. Wearing it, I felt noticeable, pretty. There I was at Bill's Ranch Market with my Dad, certain that everyone was looking at me and trying to figure out which "Miss" I was. Maybe arguing amongst themselves, certain they had seen me with my banner, roses and tastefully understated tiara. I tried not to notice their noticing. Downright aloof, I thumbed through magazines while my Dad filled the grocery basket. I imagined how proud he must be. Father of Miss America. Beautiful, talented and shyly unaffected. Aware that models and beauty queens tended to be tall, I remembered not to hunch that day. I even allowed the sweater to display my teenage breasts in bright, form-fitting coral. I held myself with demure, but regal dignity. How is it that some colored yarn and a prestigious label could, for a day, occlude the "not enough" of me? String my hermit-crab soul in Christmas lights? Apply confidence like a fake tan? How is it I didn't know I was enough?
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