by Melissa Hauser
Feb 20, 2014
I am not much of a girly girl. Yes, I treat myself to a pedicure a few times a year. And yes, I do put on makeup every day (yet proudly boast that my out-of-shower-to-out-the-door time comes in at under 13 minutes). But most of the time you can find me in sweats, barrette in hair, pale skinned with baby puke on my shirt.
But I effing love my competition heels. Yea, that’s right. My four-inch ridiculous clear plastic heels. They’re nearly impossible to walk in. Arches higher than the formations in Moab. They belong in a strip club, and definitely never, ever should see daylight.
And spray tans? Yep. The darker the better. Slather that stuff on with a paint roller. I’ll take the base coat, followed by a top coat, thank you. And yes please, I’ll take a few extra touch ups.
Teeny-tiny sparkly suit: you are my favorite. The more bling the better. Let’s add some more sequins and some more swirls; heck, let’s line my ta-ta’s with rhinestones.
And now since I’m all dolled up, let’s place some gaudy jewelry on my wrists and ears, paint my nails, slather on the makeup, and coif and cement my hair in place. Perfect. Blissful. I am now in my happy place.
This is competition day. This is the day for which weeks of prepping, months of training, and years of planning come down to. I have six minutes on stage. Six minutes to show you my dedication and commitment to this sport. Six minutes to prove that I have lifted heavier, dieted harder, and disciplined more than ever else in my life. Six minutes to show you how bad I want this.
Heels, tan, suit and makeup – these are the badges of honor that I have earned. They are ridiculous. They are completely out of my comfort zone. They are things that I used to laugh at others for. And now they are a part of me. And I love them.