Mention the words “beauty contest” to an ancient Greek and his first thought would probably be of cows.
Peter Thonemann, review of “Beauty” by David Konstan, The Wall Street Journal
“You are so beautiful–to me.”
I’m standing backstage at the Miss Ancient Greece competition, waiting to be introduced with the other judges. I check my watch–one century Before Christ, whoever he is. We’re on in three, two, one . . .
We’re introduced by Telemachus Parks, who’s been hosting the show since–I don’t know–two centuries B.C.? Everybody’s lost count it’s been so long, and yet–he never seems to age.
The lovely young heifers are paraded before us and I have to admit, my mouth is watering. I’ve resisted the temptation to tuck into a Beauty Burger in the days running up to the competition, and the sight of such gorgeous creatures has its natural effect on me.
“You know you’re drooling–right?” It’s Helen of Thrace. We couldn’t get Helen of Troy, who is barred for breaching the morals clause of her long-term contract. Don’t know what got into her, leaving her husband and daughter for Paris–and I don’t mean the capital and most populous city of the country that will be known as France someday.
“Thanks,” I say, as I dab at the corners of my mouth. What a horrible loss of self-control, or as we say in Greece, enkrateia. Hope no potential endorsement clients noticed!
First, as always, comes the talent competition, the most tedious part of the pageant. How many baton-twirling, ventriloquist, roller-skating cows singing “This is MY city-state!” can a grown-man stand. I tap my kalamos (reed pen) on the dais, counting the seconds while a young cow from Sparta juggles while gargling water. Sorry sweetheart–better keep your day job.
Next, the swim suit competition–much better. The “gals” sashay back and forth across the stage, their udders standing at pointy attention beneath the ancient precursor to polyester nylon. I need to judge this portion of the pageant verrrry carefully. It would be so unfair if I let my attention slip for a single second!
“You’re drooling again.” It’s the Thracian scold–what’s her problem, is she some kind of femininst avant la lettre?
“I take my responsibilities seriously,” I say, and rather stiffly I might add.
“Hmm,” she hmms. “I’d have thought you’d be into young boys.”
I give her my best so-funny-I-forgot-to-laugh look, without, however, actually looking in her direction. I might miss the rigid nippers on Miss Chalcedon.
I’ve got three words for you: Moisturize, moisturize, moisturize!
The ball-gown competition is next, and I have to admit I feel sorry for the contestants. How they ever find a size 208 to wear, when even Lane Bryant only goes up to a 32 (58-52-60) is beyond me.
I check my scorecard as we enter the always difficult “question and answer” part of the program, which–for those of you keeping score at home, consists of a “question” that contestants must “answer.” I have Miss Chalcedon ahead on points. I try to sneak a peek at Madame Thrace’s card, but she raises her shoulder, blocking my view. “Excuse me!” I say, bristling at her suggestion that I’m engaged in some kind of dishonesty. It’s not like this is Intro to Greek Tragedy at the Athens Gymnasium!
Have to say, I’m rooting for Miss Chalcedon. She has the fresh, cow-next-door look that the cattle from the big cities like Athens and Sparta lack. I just hope she gets a softball question!
She strides forward to the mike, chews on her cud for a moment to clear her throat, and assumes a stance of anxious readiness.
“Your best friend Boopis and you are both being considered for sacrifice to Zeus. When the fateful day arrives, it is she–not you–who is chosen.”
A cloud comes over Miss Chalcedon face. There are no flash-cards for this sort of high-tension test, and what could be more troubling to an innocent Greek cow than having to choose between loyalty to a friend, and serving as sacrificial offering to Zeus.
“Do you–congratulate her, thereby exposing yourself to ridicule as insufficiently devout,” Telemachus Parks recites with an air of Greek drama, “or do you run off the nearest cliff into the Aegean Sea?”
There is an air of anticipation hanging over the open-air amphitheatre; Miss Chalcedon looks from the emcee to her parents, sitting down front, knowing their little heifer isn’t the brightest candle in the barn, but hoping she won’t blow it. “I personally believe,” Miss Chalcedon begins, “that we, as ancient Greeks, must do everything we can to honor Zeus, who is after all the ‘Father of Gods and men.’” She makes little air quotes as she says this, to add a cute touch of emphasis, but also to buy time. “On the other hand, ‘philia’–a kind of affection or feeling or something towards not just one’s friends, but also family members, business partners, groaty old philosophers like Socrates and one’s country at large–is also very important, and I think Zeus thinks about that a lot, too, so he wouldn’t have a problem with it if I congratulated Boopis, who like you said in your question is my very best friend.”
A massive sigh–an exhale of relief from the audience–is followed by an outburst of applause that could be heard 26.2 miles away at Marathon.
“She nailed it!” I say, turning to Helen of Thrace and giving her a big hug.
“What happened to your thin veil of objectivity?” she snorts.
I recover myself, not wanting to tip my hand. “Sorry,” I say. “I just didn’t want her to end up in a blooper reel on tomorrow’s news for one of the Top 5 Beauty Pageant Gaffes.”