Damned Balloon Animals!

As a highschooler, I was an over-achiever. I made honor roll most of the time and ended up graduating 3rd in my class; which didn't say much because my highschool was clogged with a large number of lazy idiots. (I guess most schools are, though.) I joined just about every organization that I could. This was just as much a product of boredom as it was the determination to snag college scholarships (it accomplished both goals in the end). I was in everything from Acapella Choir to the Math Club (which is ironic because, after water-skiing, math is the thing that I'm least skilled at). I was even an officer in an athletic organization, and I didn't even play a sport. Not exactly sure how that one developed, either. The only thing that absolutely didn't appeal to me was cheerleading....it's an activity that just doesn't make room for bitterness and sarcasm. Not my bag. Even outside of school, I found multiple ways to reach out to "the community", if you will.

One activity I took part in is one that I've haven't told a large number of people about. I suppose I hadn't really concentrated on the absurdity of it until I recently mentioned it to coworkers. I was immediately serviced with depreciating laughter and rapid fire questions that illustrated their disbelief in the validity of it all. The fog over my past has evaporated to expose extreme embarrassment, but it's the kind of embarrassment that you're almost proud of....like scars from an idiotic, self-perpetuated accident. And, since the main purpose of this blogsite is to provide a service to you, my "community", it would be unmagnanimous for me to keep it from you.

I was a clown. Literally. I wore the goofy outfit and the makeup and everything. For some reason that I'm really not sure of, I joined a clowning troupe ( the "e" at the end meant it was super-fancy) in 10th grade. The force of a bizarre, backwards type of peer pressure must have been what prompted me. Everyone in the group had to go by a "clown name"...we weren't allowed to refer to each other or ourselves by our actual names when in costume. Mine was Star. I've since realized that that particular name is one used most commonly by strippers, but it seemed appropriate at the time. Although.......a clown stripper (or would it be "stripper clown"?) might be interesting. I've heard of clown porn, so I know that somebody has to be into it. I can't even begin to describe how disturbingly un-sexy I imagine that must be, by the way.

In case you are unfamiliar with costume makeup...it's really nasty. The only thing comparable I can imagine is Crisco mixed with food coloring. No matter how careful I was, it would inevitably get lodged in my ears and hair. I'd go through half a bag of cotton balls and still see white streaks in unusual places. My "character face" featured a greasy blue star that covered my right eye (hence the name Star, you see. cool, huh?). My costume was a red cordouroy jumper covered with giant pockets and striped knee-socks in a hideous rainbow of colors. Thank God I have no pictures in my possession that could serve as evidence. It was a site that only a mother would call cute; and mine probably did.

It's funny, but it's hard for me to remember what we actually did as a collective group of clowns. I recall various, painfully non-amusing skits in front of little kids and the elderly. Who else would tolerate our efforts to entertain, after all? I'm sure we did our best to spread joy and smiles in the typical clownish tradition, but no specific examples come to mind. I think I subconciously blocked it from my memory. That's what often happens when we experience horrific tragedy.

Needless to say, clowning didn't prove itself to be a lasting hobby for me. It was very short-lived....as well it should have been. Looking back, it was probably my failure at balloon skills that sunk my boat. We were trained in all things clown-like; including balloon-animal construction. I know it doesn't appear to be a difficult skill, but I'd like to see YOU try it! Anytime I managed to twist a balloon into a shape even somewhat resembling an animal, it would either pop or untwist itself. Ringling Bros. would have never wanted me, and that was just another potential rejection that I couldn't face up to.

No wonder I didn't have a boyfriend until senior year.