Youngblood
One last crazy thing
By Cheryl Polican
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 02:10:00 11/06/2008
Filed Under: Human Interest
Four years ago I did it out of sheer naïveté.
This year I know better—or so I thought.
“Busy tomorrow?” a chat window popped up. And before I could think of a reply, another message came up: “Be our muse tomorrow, T.I.M Bowling at MOA. Be there.”
What? Me, a muse? Was he kidding?
Feeling a rush of déjà vu, my thoughts went back to the Ides of March in the year 2004. It was a cool Monday evening, and a cheery team spirit was in the air. It was the opening of the company’s basketball tournament and I was there, dragged against my will, to be the muse. I must have seemed queer, with my nerdy glasses, boyish haircut, and totally unsophisticated look.
One look at the other girls made me wish the ground would just swallow me up. They were in the best of fashion: miniskirts, mini shorts, body hugging tops, bangles and all. The ugly duckling that I was didn’t belong with the pretty swans.
Thankfully, my ordeal was soon over as I simply had to take a walk with the team around the court, holding the team’s banner. At least I didn’t have to strut out there alone. I didn’t bother to stick around after the parade. I quickly took off and never looked back.
Not until the day those messages were posted. Unwilling to relive that harrowing experience, I came up with all sorts of reasons to decline. I suggested a dozen names, girls who were more qualified than I was. I protested. I argued. But in the end, I agreed. I decided to do one last crazy thing before I officially begin year 25 of my life.
I didn’t know what I bargained for. I entered the bowling center with a tightness in my stomach. This was it—crazy or otherwise. The place was already packed with people: players representing their respective companies, camera people, staff people, judges and, of course, muses. I caught a good glimpse of them, and the tightness in my stomach eased a bit. I didn’t look so bad. Although I was not in the dominant attire consisting of ultra-mini skirts and shorts, I looked tolerable enough in my all-black attire. I may actually live through this after all! I reassured myself.
While I was happily relishing the thought, we were suddenly called to a briefing. Circular pieces of paper were handed to each of us. The coordinator started giving instructions about where to walk, where to pose, and where to give the short speech.
Pose? Speak? What was she talking about? Had I walked into a beauty pageant?
I glanced at the paper in my hand, turned it over and saw the number. To my horror, I realized I was contestant No. 10!
Panic began to set in. A million thoughts ran through my mind: I can’t do this! I’ve never done it before. What if I slipped? What if I messed up? What if I suddenly froze on stage and people lead me down? What if…?
It would have been easy to scamper to the nearest exit without anyone noticing in the throng of unfamiliar faces. I wouldn’t be missed. And yet there I was, heart racing like a horse, appendages clammy, racking my brains for a short speech to make. Whoever had the idea of doing one crazy little thing before turning 25?
It wasn’t long before the host announced that the show would begin. I reluctantly joined the line of anxious girls waiting—some for the glorious moment, some for the death sentence. We were to be called one by one, strut our stuff up front and make a short speech in the middle of the stage.
While waiting for our numbers to be called, muse No. 8 turned to me and struck up a conversation. To my surprise and relief, I heard from her the same feelings I had: the butterflies, the cluelessness about how to pose and make a speech, and the fretting over having no idea about what to say. For a moment, I felt my racing heart slow down a bit. I was not alone. I could do this!
And now, let’s give it to Muse No. 10!
It was time. I took a deep breath. Thunderous applause greeted me as I did the catwalk—deftly, I hoped. I gave an extra-wide smile, accepted a white rose from the host, and took the microphone at center stage. The butterflies were still swarming, but I managed to speak up and introduce myself. I ended my short speech with a catch line, and to my great relief, I heard a repeat of the thunderous applause. Whew!
I received no big bouquet of flowers that night. Neither did I bring home the coveted title. Still, it felt like victory, a personal victory. It felt good to have survived that daunting, nerve-wracking ordeal. I suddenly felt invincible, redeemed.
Looking back, I will always be thankful for such experiences in my life: the tough ones, the embarrassing ones, the nerve-wracking ones, the trying ones. They’ve taught me hard, and they’ve taught me well. Opportunities for such experiences come but rarely and I hope that when the next one knocks, I’ll be crazy enough to answer it. And let it not just be because I’ll be turning another year older.
Cheryl Polican, 24, is an IT specialist working with Philippine Airlines.
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