Confessions of A Beauty Queen

This column was written by Christina Ruffini, a CBS Evening News broadcast associate based in Washington and a recovering beauty pageant contestant. She has held the title of Little Miss Sunburst, Junior Miss Colorado Springs and - most frequently - runner up.

In six months, I will officially be too old to become Miss America.

At 24, I will have reached my pageant expiration date and - given my very slim odds of marrying Prince William - forsaken my only chance of achieving a crown-bearing title in my lifetime.

No blowing kisses, no arm of roses, no hair-spray encrusted cubic zirconiums to adorn my overly-processed head.

This is not to imply that my likelihood of making the top ten has ever been stellar or even existent; however, it was nice to know that if college, career, or real life in general didn't work out, there was always Miss America.

Now, my bedazzled safety net is gone.

Technically, I should hate everything about beauty pageants. The idea that intelligent, attractive young women would willingly parade around in little more than bronzer and double-stick tape and subject themselves to a judging process that closely resembles a prize emu competition at the state fair, seems antiquated at best.

However, this past weekend, as I watched a lace-clad Miss Indiana become the 52nd young woman to cry and take home the crown, I realized to my great horror, that the emotion welling up in my chest was not complacency, it was jealousy.

Despite all my accomplishments, despite my great job, my impending master's degree and the fact that I can say "Clearance Sale" in five languages, I still want to be freaking Miss America.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I will admit that I experimented - briefly - with pageantry in my youth. Yes, there are sequined skeletons in my closet. I was young, I was foolish, and I never inhaled, especially when using Aquanet.

I got stuck on the spray tan and spray adhesive. I dabbled in the off-label use of multiple drugstore products. I put hemorrhoid cream under my eyes (to get rid of the little baggies) and Vaseline on my teeth (so my lips wouldn't stick to them after several straight hours of smiling).

I tap danced in a cowboy hat and wore a uni-tard with fringe. I answered questions that began with, "If you were stranded on a desert island . . ." and verbally campaigned for world peace. I duct-taped my cleavage and used enough aerosol to single-handedly take out the ozone. Blush was my war paint, the stage, my place of battle.

I have gotten help. I have since reformed. I have put away my tackle box of cosmetics and re-entered society as an appropriately made-up individual.
But despite my best efforts to stick with my sashless sobriety, Miss America still gets to me. Every time I see one of those glossy glamazons get in an evening gown and try to explain the reasons why "U.S. Americans" need more maps - thank you, Miss Teen South Carolina - so help me God, I want to be one of them.

Clearly, I am not alone.

It has been more than 50 years, and this silly little contest that originated as a boardwalk gimmick to entertain tourists in Atlantic City is still kicking - and twirling, and waving . . .

Despite the pageant's growing irrelevance and its recent exile to the fringes of cable programming, there is something about Miss America that manages to endure.

And when it comes right down to it, no matter how old I get or how many grown-up things I do, I am still that glitter-gilded little girl who just wants to be a pretty, pretty princess.

I can't hate Miss America any more than I can hate icing or whipped cream. Sure ,she's fluffy and generally devoid of nutrients, but as long as we don't overindulge, she can't really hurt us.

Besides, she sure looks pretty on a float.