College Girls Meets Southern Boy - part 2

Three Dates at the West Central Georgia Fair

The first night we went to see my date’s nephew compete in the Little Mr. Pageant.
The second night we went for the corn dogs.
The third night we went because I needed to make my car payment.


I had a college degree. I had a job. I had a car. But I was broke; the college degree came with college loan payments.
Having heard on the radio that there was a talent competition at the fair with a first prize of $200 (ding-ding-ding-car payment), I decided I would sing and, hopefully, take home the prize money.


I had begun my freshman year in college on a partial music scholarship. My voice teacher was the best. I had auditioned for the touring choir and traveled nationally and internationally, singing first soprano for four years.

Before changing my major to Communications and Modern Foreign Languages, my teacher and I had discussed the idea of my moving to New York, continuing my vocal training and setting my sights on the Opera stage. (And right about now you are thinking, “Of course you won’t win a talent competition at the West Central Georgia Fair singing an Italian aria.”)


And, of course, you would be right but even trained singers can belt out some pop music. I put on my pretty dress, hot rolled my hair, applied my Merle Norman eye liner in “teal,” and stashed my accompaniment cassette of “Wind Beneath My Wings” in my Liz Claiborne bag (the doctor's satchel in taupe). I was ready to win a car payment!


 
I felt confident that I could win, if not first place, either second or third. Surely I could win third? $75 - come on. Seriously. And then I heard the theme music to Beverly Hills Cop and saw a dance duo in matching leotards - a brother and sister dance team. They were up first.

 

Ohhhhh, they won't win. Cartwheels? Where am I? Was there a tornado in the night and I was blown away to some parallel county in the Deep South? A place where brothers and sisters in garish dance costumes do the Worm while the fragrance of fried pork skins wafts? I repeat, "Where was I?"

With second thoughts on how this might all go down, I waited my turn, nervously tapping my snakeskin, peep toe pumps.

 

Well...at least my date is good looking.

 

(to be continued)