Baby June Syndrome

When I was a kid I wanted to be Shirley Temple. Or Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Blair from the “Facts of Life.” I wanted to be a gymnast or a skater or a dancer or a singer or an actress or twirl batons or something like that. I wanted to be Margaux Kramer. To a 7-year-old me it was no conincidence that the prettiest, most stuck-up, popular chipette Brittany and I shared a name.

I was a totally prissy, princess attention junkie. In a tutu. Dancing for you for as long as you can stand to watch, busting my freshly choreographed moves on you whilst falsettoing Paula Abdul’s “Rush, Rush” into a banana clip.

In my after school care I would write plays, cast them, myself always in the lead, then direct and perform the show. In day care. In first grade I did a revisionist version of Cinderella that had Cinderella (performed flawlessly by me, naturally) doing 80s dance moves such as the Roger Rabbit. I think there was some sub-plot about Cinderella rebelling against the stepmother who made her drink powdered milk. They made us drink powdered milk at day care and I hated it so much, so much. Barf, just thinking of it now makes me stomach wince.

I convinced my mom to let me be a cheerleader for a city league kids’ football team. The Ashland City Cowboys. How janky is that? They had navy and blue uniforms with stars on them and I got some bloomers that had my name embroidered right across the ass. (I fucking loved those bloomers. I would sometimes wear them under my clothes to school. Just because.) We did a dance to freaking Alabama’s “Mountain Music.” You know, like Grandma and Grandpa used to play. Is that not the single most redneck thing you have ever heard?

And I suppose that is what all that toe shoe and sparly tiara wearing was all about. I was rebelling against growing up kind of poor. Poor in a rural area of Tennessee in a crappy town with a stop light and a Food Lion and little else. I was gasping for a breath of culture. I was starved for the charmed life of Kimberly Drummund.

In 5th grade I actually got my P.E. teacher to agree to let me skip the regular activities and just dance in the office or onstage in the gym. Me, and like, four other girls. We would put on 50s music like “My Boyfriend’s Back” or “Leader of the Pack” and we’d all choreograph a routine. A lot of tracing a heart over our left breast any time someone sang “heart” or “love.” Or mimicing the revving of the motor on a motorcycle in time with that sound. Really ingenius stuff. At the end of the year we put makeup on and performed our finely tuned routine for the rest of the class who had been running and thowing or kicking balls at each other and doing pushup all semester. They were none too thrilled. True artists’ work, I knew even in grade school, was misunderstood by the masses.

It was at this same time that my friend Christie and I in our after school care program orchestrated a BEAUTY PAGEANT. We had talent competition and a swimsuit category (which was um, shorts and t-shirts really) and somehow we got the directors to make all the kids sit down and watch our bratty asses parade in front of them in too-small and faded Ashland City Cowboys cheerleader costumes trying a new tap routine to “Cat Scratch Fever.” The beauty pageant was my idea and I lost to Christie. I did not let that blow affect my future as a primadonna priss-face and had a healthy career at it.

I was in an exclusive club in 7th grade that ruled out potential members based on their ability to make up dances. I became an obnoxious cheerleader again in high school before finding even that shit too saccharine and plastic. I focused my energies on drama and dance and vocal performance. I sang fucking Phantom of the Opera songs at talent shows, and somehow made it to Nashville every week to dance lessons I paid for myself, even when I didn’t have a car. I was later in musicals and joined my university choir.

And now I just don’t. I have two pairs of tap shoes in the closet and a megaphone in my mother’s attic and photo after photo of me in sequined leotards and too much blush. The showboating has ceased, though. Well, besides this blog thing here, which can feel like a very singular activity a lot of times. I’ve become now, in my older age, withdrawn and reserved. I may joke with you, but the last thing I’d ever do is sing you a song.

I dance for my sister sometimes. I break out old cheerleading routines my body has forever memorized. It makes her laugh and laugh. I tapdanced for the VCB the other day. Put the shoes on and everything.

And sometimes I put on concerts in my car.