Diary,
This is how I know I’m not only a study in contrasts, but a hypocrite to boot. Beauty pageants. Take Miss World, for instance. A collection of the most beautiful women from almost every country in the world in one room. Human obsession with aesthetics has always fascinated me, and yet, I happen to be one of the worst affected humans.
I mean, I once turned down a date because the woman’s nose was a tad too big. Don’t get me wrong. She wasn’t ugly or anything, I just felt like I wouldn’t be able to take my eyes off that one feature out of proportion with the rest. It’s the reverse side of what us men do with women who are more than generously endowed in the chest area. It’s like a tractor beam to our eyes.
Until recently, I thought only men were obsessed with beauty pageants, until I read how lucrative and competitive they can be. From directors to designers, nearly everyone makes a load of moolah, but not so much the contestants. Though they spend a lot on costumes and talent managers and the like, most of them only end up with a sash and a sense of pride.
It, therefore, came as no surprise that when I went on a couple of dates with a national pageant winner, she wouldn’t let me call her by her name.
“It’s Miss Rwanda to you,” she insisted. “Please, respect the crown.”
And that respect extended to the bedroom. As we were about to hit the sack, she excused herself to get into something “more comfortable”, only to emerge from the bathroom dressed in nothing but a narrow red band across her shoulders, emblazoned with the words “Winner, Miss Rwanda.”
