The truth hurts

Last night, I auditioned for a women’s ensemble at my church. Now, guys, it’s been a long time since I’ve tried out for anything, unless you count job interviews, so last night’s audition turned my mind to a memory that although it’s more than 10 years old, still makes me laugh. So I share this potentially embarrassing story with you.

When I was in high school, I was a cheerleader. Yes, a cheerleader. I really can’t explain it. I somehow had rhythm then, which I’ve lost entirely now. Have you guys seen me dance? (Yeah, the lack of rhythm thing would be why not.) Anyway, I was a cheerleader. The completely non-graceful girl—the one who trips up the stairs, stumbles on nothing but air, and currently has an unexplainable bruise on her thigh—was a cheerleader. And, dear readers, I wasn’t a terrible cheerleader. That’s all I’m saying about that.

See in my high school, cheerleaders really didn’t fit the stereotype so often associated with them. We were a tiny, rural school system in an area of the country that LOVES basketball. When you had maybe 200 kids in the entire high school and 40 or so in your class, there wasn’t enough people for the cheerleaders to always be the pretty, ditzy girls. So I was a cheerleader AND the “smart” girl. (Yes, I realize I have also gotten dumber as I’ve gotten older.)

Anyway, we had to try out each year for the squad. That usually involved doing a run-on (like what cheerleaders do when they take the floor for a cheer, complete with tumbling, jumping, and yelling) a floor cheer, a chant, demonstrate some cheerleading jumps, and do a run-off. There were usually about 3 judges, sometimes former high school cheerleaders, cheerleaders from the local community college, or when Mr. Boles came to BHS to teach science, former NCAA cheerleaders. At this particular tryout, I had decided my run-on would include a cartwheel, some “Go Bernie!” yelling, jumps, and as I approached the middle of the floor where I would perform my cheer and chant, I would launch myself into a round-off, land it and launch into the toe touch jump to end all toe touch jumps. Obviously, this did not go as planned.

Let me insert that tumbling wasn’t all that important for cheerleaders in our small school. We didn’t compete in competitions, so it wasn’t a requirement. And for me, that was a good thing because although I had taken gymnastics and done every trick possible—on mats with a spotter—I’d never really mastered the back handspring or back tuck. See, here’s something you need to know about gymnastics and cheerleading in general: if you get scared in the middle of a complicated tumbling pass or when someone is throwing you into the air and expecting you to land on one foot in someone else’s hands—if you get scared, you’re going to get hurt. And I started out scared when doing anything more than a round-off. So back handsprings, really not an option for this try-out.

It started out well. I was smiling, running, jumping, cartwheeling, yelling “Go Bernie!” and “Let’s Go Mules!” (Yes, my high school mascot was a terrifying mule. Yes, other schools had other nicknames for us.) As I neared the middle, I launched into that round-off.

As I soared into the stratosphere and completed my jump, I realized something. I was really high in the air. Like higher than ever before. And the view sure was different up here. But in that split second of slow-mo in the middle of my toe touch, I realized something else: this was not going to end well. Because while I had achieved new heights, I had also somehow over-rotated and sat back in the jump and was now falling toward the hard gym floor. I wasn’t going to land on my feet with a pretty smile and “Go, Mules!” on my lips. I was landing on my butt and back with a sickening thud. This was going to be so great!

Now, dear readers, when life slams you back to the hard gym floor you have a choice. You can stay there and nurse your injured pride, which I thought about during the descent, or you can laugh, which I did at my beautiful landing, and get up with a modicum of grace, a smile, and yell “Go, Bernie!” Which is what I did, laughter in my eyes, because really if this wasn’t funny, what is? I did some jumps to prove I could indeed land them, completed the remainder of my try-out, and threw in some tumbling in the run-off, just to show the judges I wasn’t a complete spaz.

I made the team. And I honestly don’t think it was because I was so astounding. I think part of it was because I got up.

For once in my life, I didn’t make excuses, got up, and made the best of an embarrassing situation. I really should have internalized that lesson all those years ago, because I’m still trying to learn it today!