Halftime

As if our Chiquita Banana costumes weren’t bad enough, these black crushed velvet jumpsuit monstrosities complete with colored ruffle sleeves and a satin sash around our waists, we weren’t nearly practiced. The routines were shaky at best and the dance girls and the drill girls were not getting along. And no one was happy about throwing flags. 

Yet there we were. The first football game of the season and we didn’t have a choice but to perform together. We’d power through. Hopefully not humiliate ourselves. Or kill each other.

This was going to be painful.

Halftime show.

Ready?

The first number was a blur. Count count step step toss catch step. Don’t forget to smile. Don’t hit the trumpets with my flag. Watch the drum major. Stay on time. Don’t slip on the grass. Hope we’re all remembering the steps and don’t look like idiots.

Whew. First number finished. All I had to do next was kneel, set my flag down and pick up the swing flag in front of me. So simple. One would think.

Kneeling down, the slick grass under my front leg betrayed my jazz-shoed foot and the next thing I knew I was face down on the ground.

The only sound in my ears the cackles of the cheerleading squad sitting in front of me, my ex- boyfriend among them. A laughing pile of uniformed, beautiful people, rolling all over themselves, taking utter delight in my small humiliation.

Then the next song began. All too soon.

Mortified, picking my sorry ass up, grabbing my swing flag, not looking anyone in the face for fear the tears would come, limping slightly to favor a twisted ankle, smiling so large it hurt to favor a bruised ego, what choice did I have but to continue on?

Mortification churned into anger and suddenly I was dancing the hardest I’d ever danced. Tossed that flag high. Flicked my head and flashed my smile. Pointed my toes and swayed my hips. Every second of the next two songs was precise, palpable.

Oye Como Va. Shake those hips, ladies.

Sure we still kind of sucked and my ankle was aching, but I would be damned if I’d let those laughing assholes make it worse. They could kiss my clumsy, limping, skinny ass.

Besides, later I had a sweet boy to get me nachos with extra cheese and carry me to the car even though I insisted I could walk on my own.

 

This was a post for the RemembeRED prompt: Know what's NOT funny? People laughing at you. Did someone embarrass you, your parents perhaps? Or did you bring it upon yourself? Are you still embarrassed or can you laugh at it now? Take us back to an embarrassing moment in your life.