Being Miss America: Behind the Rhinestone Curtain (Discovering America) (19 page)

When I first learn that this community exists, I am properly horrified. Up to this point, I kind of think I’ve been totally killing it as Miss America, and expect that conventional wisdom agrees with me. As it turns out, not so much
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But thank God—and I really do thank God for this, because the alternative is almost too much to bear—I happen to be Miss America at the dawn of all this stuff. Because now, as opposed to then, the contestants who seek the biggest, sparkliest crown of all can log on at any time of the day or night. If they’re so inclined, they can read what any random stranger thinks about their evening gown, the song they choose for talent, their lipstick or their hair color. Or whether they’ve let their roots grow in, or whether they’ve gained five pounds after the pageant. Or whether their face is symmetrical. Or their eye shadow is flattering. Or their dress for a particular event is tacky. Or that they “need” a nose job, have a weak chin, are too outspoken or too vanilla, should wear Spanx, should be ashamed to have to wear Spanx, need their eyebrows reshaped, have implants that are too obvious or cleavage that needs better support. It is the antithesis of what I hope Miss America will be. It is utterly useless and empowers no one
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These days, the young women who strive toward this goal don’t just throw their respective hats into the ring and do their best. If they so choose—and no matter what anyone tells you, it’s difficult to block it out—they can keep tabs on what everyone thinks about the choices they make. They never know who’s behind a particular handle, or an anonymous post. It could be their runner-up from two years ago, or the
runner-up’s mom. It could be a board member who’s cheering for someone else to win. Or a well-intentioned volunteer who wants a contestant to get herself together because she’d really be a great Miss State, if only she’d change her talent and her wardrobe and maybe get some lipo or Invisalign
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It disgusts me. But because it infuriates me, because it’s a perversion of what Miss America should be and is inflicted upon young women who have stars in their eyes and no idea that they’re actually signing up for this, it’s hard to look away
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And so, since I have such trouble distancing myself from this type of preposterous yet mesmerizing criticism; because, despite my best efforts to compartmentalize and put things in perspective; despite the reassurance of friends and family that It Doesn’t Matter and You’re Doing Great and It Gets Better, I will tell you what it does to me
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First, a disclaimer: online message boards are not to blame for the choices I make. If I am to stretch, I might place accountability squarely on the identity crisis that pulls me, an average college student, in the opposite direction from me, the current Miss America. I might blame my control-freak control issues, in the context of a year when my life is not my own. I might point to the implied obligation to uphold an image that I never expected . . . although of course, with the benefit of age and hindsight, I know that I
should have
expected it
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In short, I get sick
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My issues with food and body image creep up on me. I truly haven’t starved myself to be in swimsuit shape; I’ve worked my ass off to be fit and healthy. I’ve done push-up pyramids that turn my arms to Jell-O. I’ve eaten six times a day. Boring stuff, to be sure: grilled chicken, baked potatoes, salads, egg-white omelets, the slow, dull kind of oatmeal. I’ve learned that two-a-day workouts are my friend and junk food is my enemy. I know that there’s a battalion of healthy choices when it comes to interesting foods, especially in the
spice category. I’ve used enough liquid smoke and hot sauce to drown a New York subway rat
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This continues while I’m competing in Atlantic City. As a local, I have luxuries that other contestants do not. Although I’m not permitted to see him (lest some intrepid sleuth with press credentials leap to a scandalous conclusion), my dad drops off the primitive family exercise bike and a small microwave in my hotel room at the Claridge. Combined with my
Abs of Steel
video—and when I meet Abs of Steel guru Tamilee Webb a few years later at a San Diego fitness conference, I joyously announce that I never would have won Miss America without her—these tools keep me happy and healthy and fit. I pack a lunch each day: a can of low-sodium tuna, a baked potato, and one of the “good” fruits, like grapefruit (“bad” fruits, like bananas and grapes, are expected to sit in the corner and look ashamed of themselves). I ride that exercise bike at the end of the day. I do the abs video when I’m ready to fall asleep on the hotel floor, and elsewhere. If you have eagle eyes, you can watch my post-crowning victory walk and see the long bruise up my spine from doing crunches on the stage anytime there’s five minutes between the end of lunch hour and the beginning of afternoon rehearsal
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And yet . . . and yet, when I become Miss America, it’s suddenly not enough. With every chicken dinner, I feel like my sponsor-provided clothes get tighter. Despite the good work I know I’m doing, I worry that I’m letting people down. I take preemptive steps; when nonprofits call on me to cut the ribbons for their fund-raising AIDS Rides, I ask to participate. I spend my limited downtime in hotel gyms, following their trainer’s helpful advice and riding the stationary bike for up to four hours at a time. I jump on a borrowed bike to do 100 miles from Chelsea Piers to Southampton. And then again, on the big island in Hawaii, 75 miles and a 4,000-foot climb up a volcano. I’m the first to finish in the female divi
sion, mostly because I have to immediately fly back to Honolulu for a speech
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Quite simply, it is not enough
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I start to have problems with food. Without getting into the details, I’m overeating and then depriving myself. It’s dangerous and stupid and utterly not who I am—but really, the fact that I do it basically
does
make it who I am. It’s not unusual for me to burst into tears—big, hysterical tears, no less—if my plan to exercise gets thwarted by some event that runs long. Or if my ever-changing schedule means that I don’t get back to the hotel until after the gym is closed. It’s massively unhealthy, and it doesn’t stop when I give up the crown
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My senior year is absolutely insane. I have one foot in finishing my degree (and maintaining some kind of relationship with normalcy, like going to football games and doing college theater) and one foot in continuing the work I did as Miss America. It’s not unheard of for me to miss classes on, say, a Tuesday, fly from O’Hare to DC, spend four or five hours meeting with legislators about HIV/AIDS issues, race to the airport to catch a three o’clock flight, and get back to campus just in time to make the evening rehearsal for a show I’m performing in. My professors are beyond understanding, particularly my acting teachers, who have been nothing but supportive of my platform work. But I’m stretched way too thin; something’s gotta give. And so, even though I “have my life back” and can set my own schedule, my problems with food remain. In fact, they even intensify. The flip side of not having someone to do all my scheduling for me is that I have to learn to say no. It’s so much easier to turn myself inside out trying to make everyone happy—which, of course, is a fool’s errand on its own
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All of this continues when I get to New York after graduation. I always hear that eating disorders are about control, not food, and in my case, that’s absolutely true. My guilt
about not being able to please everyone combines with my trouble keeping my physical appearance at the highest possible level. I worry that no matter what I accomplish, those anonymous online phantoms still don’t think I deserved to be Miss America, and I am determined to prove them wrong. On top of everything, I now live in a city where it seems like everyone is a size two (a physical impossibility for me because of my bone structure), and I’m trying to get off the ground in a business where one’s appearance is literally part of the job description
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I run a marathon. I still don’t like what I see in the mirror. I walk into a New York Sports Club and ask for the toughest trainer they have; they send me straight to Eytan. He makes me run sprints up the hill to Zabar’s, and is kind of stoked on the day I almost throw up on the gym floor (let the record show that Eytan is awesome). I get a job in
Jekyll and Hyde
on Broadway, and then I’m hired to star in the national tour of
Cabaret.
Back on the road. Again
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I tell both actors and Miss Americas who are just starting out that if you have any demons, you can expect them to multiply like wet gremlins while you’re touring. Mine certainly do. I absolutely love playing Sally Bowles, but dancing around in various types of lingerie—corsets and slips and stuff—for two hours a night kind of complicates things. My corset is custom-made for me; it fits like a glove and is incredibly flattering. As the months pass, I’m working out during the day, doing eight shows a week, and not eating all that much. For a while, I take metabolism-boosting energy supplements and drink a lot of coffee. Eventually, I’m not all that surprised when ephedrine gets pulled off the market; I figure there’s something wrong the day I’m walking to the YMCA in Milwaukee and my heart starts fluttering in my chest. This freaks me out enough to ditch my bottle of Xenadrine, and then I gradually just kind of stop eating very much. It makes me feel great when my corset actually needs to be taken in. After about six months, I stop backstage at the still-running
Jekyll & Hyde
during a week off; I’m pumped to be asked how much weight I’ve lost and how I did it
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A year later, I spend a few months in L.A. for pilot season, depressed for several reasons. First of all, I think Los Angeles is just fundamentally kind of a depressing place. Second, a particularly miserable breakup has rocked my self-esteem. And third, it’s shortly after the September 11 attacks, which have knocked every New Yorker for a loop. I don’t know many people there, so I have plenty of time to work out like a freak and skip meals left and right. Even with the muscle mass I accumulate, my weight keeps dropping until I’m about fifteen pounds thinner than I was during my televised swimsuit competition. I think I finally look great. But to this day, I still remember the look on my best friend’s face when I take a weekend trip back to New York to see a show. He’s not a fan of my new look
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Today, when I see pictures of myself from back then, it’s hard to believe I could possibly have thought I was fat. My arms—never the easiest part of my body to keep in shape—are scary skinny. My jawline is sharp, the skin pulled tight. I don’t look pretty by a long shot, but I remember feeling happy. Once I’ve learned that it makes me feel powerful to spend the day hungry (which is embarrassing even to admit to myself), I feel full in a different way. Feeling in control of my life—or, at least, my appearance—is like a drug
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I never get to rock bottom in the same way that lots of people do. I never end up in the hospital, my hair doesn’t fall out, I don’t drop to eighty-nine pounds before my family stages an intervention. I really don’t even have a lot of therapy, although I try it. What ends up happening is a combination of things: I start to get really tired of constantly freaking out about my body, I have a couple of good relationships with really supportive boyfriends, and I realize that I’m just never going to be able to be all things to all people. There’s not a day when I suddenly snap out of it; I just gradually learn to like myself more. Even today, I can’t say that I never have a
wave of guilt after a big meal, but I’m better at putting it into perspective. And although I still have most of my “skinny clothes,” I’m pretty sure I’ll never wear them again
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Again: Internet message boards, and the people who populate them, are not to blame for all this. Clearly, there was—and probably still is—a significant piece of me that cared way too much about what other people thought. No matter how satisfying I found my actual work, I became obsessed with the realization that I could stretch myself beyond my limits and still come up short in the opinions of some. I’ve finally internalized that I have to be my own compass, to know when I’m doing as much as I can handle and weed out what’s really not important
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But I feel for the young women who are venturing into this territory unaware. Who knows what triggers they have? Who can predict how they may respond to the unforeseen pressure to be perfect (whatever that means)? Will they become hypocrites, like I did, insisting that Miss America was all about the big picture while privately striving for an impossible aesthetic? I do know that I’m not alone in this experience: there are Miss Americas who have become alcoholic, anorexic, seriously depressed, even suicidal during and after their year with the crown. And I’m sure there are more than I know about—but I’ll leave them to tell their own stories
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Mostly, I wonder why we have to be so mean. To me, the Internet would be best if it were governed by the same rules we follow in the rest of our lives. Go ahead with your constructive criticism; there’s nothing that says we can’t learn from what we read about ourselves online. But seriously, if you wouldn’t stand up in a crowded room and say something loudly enough for everyone to hear, then for God’s sake, don’t type it into a box, leave the name blank, and press “Send.” Our actions have so many consequences that can be impossible to anticipate. The Golden Rule has endured for a reason
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Sure, it might be preposterous to believe that the anonymous Web commenter genie can be stuffed back into its bottle, now that those inclined to do so have discovered a way to publicly spew vitriol without any accountability. But, hey, a girl can hope
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TWELVE

Essentially, the current era of Miss America began upon the retirement of Leonard Horn in September 1998. Not that everything changed overnight; there would be many, many incremental reinventions (both successful and unsuccessful) between that year and today. But several factors immediately began to develop that would cripple the leadership, limit the pageant’s appeal, and make Miss America’s year of service look more and more like Moses and company wandering in the desert.