I Almost Got the Nut

It's difficult to explain why I wanted to win that beauty pageant so badly. But I did. I craved it more than a squirrel scavenging scraps; longed for it the way their teeth ache to chew. And just like a pesky squirrel, relentless to outsmart a bird feeder, I dreamed of rigging the system.

And glory-obsessed-lil-me, she was no better than those frantic, instinct-driven rascals. With perhaps a dash of cuteness, and a hint of playful innocence, the truth remained: I was ultimately as scatter-brained as a nut-hungry rodent.

If you had asked me at the time, my pageant-monger self would have insisted I was driven by the cause, wild to make a change. But everyone knows the truth—beauty queens and spectators alike:

We just want that sparkly little tiara.

You know, the pointy crown that's so ridiculously undersized, it looks like it was made for a woodland creature…An animal.

And that's what we were, us pageant girls: animals. We were desperate, tail-twitching, and hungry (in more ways than one). But instead of running around in a feral panic because we: MUST MUNCH, MUST MATE, MUST NOT DIE, it was: MUST WAX, MUST WINK, and most importantly, MUST MAKE WALKING IN STILETTOS A PERSONALITY TRAIT.

And why?

Come to think of it, a certain squirrel once happened to ask me that very question. "Why do humans do this thing?" So I put it in simple terms, hoping we'd both get to the nut of the matter.

"Imagine this," I said. "We put a bunch of giddy squirrels on top of a big rock, high up, so all can see. And we let them prance about, so gracefully. Bedazzled with beads of sweat, as if they're trapped on a hot tin roof. They do this while family members (and a few mysterious males), silently observe.

It's a real spectacle—like watching The Animal Olympics. Except in this case, there's less athleticism and admiration, and more gravity-defying hair volume…Plus glitter. A lot of glitter.”

Then my furry friend asked, "Do the onlookers enjoy it?"

"No," I replied. "They cringe."

The squirrel's tail flicked in silent response.

“So,” I continued, "the squirrels on the rock, they primp, they pout, they pose, they promenade. And all the while, they stay ohhh-so-hungry, incessantly stretching their faces into large-toothed grimaces (disguising them as smiles)...until the crowd is so tired, they're just clapping to stay awake."

My squirrel friend only blinked, but I didn’t need encouragement.

"Now imagine this," I said, feeling theatrical, "three bigger squirrels sit down in front of them, all in a row. Watching with beady black eyes, vacant stares. Imagine 'em old, too, with sparse tails that look like hair brushes missing half the bristles. Now make those scruffy old codgers decide: which of the pretty squirrels deserves the nut?

And Squirrel," I told him, "remember: exceptional talent is of no consequence. And for that matter, obvious tail extensions hold no weight whatsoever. The only thing that truly matters, is whose fur is the shiniest, teeth are the nibbly-est, squeak is the squealy-est, tail is the frilliest.

And don't worry about the other squirrels—you know, the ones who did all the foraging.

They'll pave the way for the squirrely-est squirrel to win!

Sure, the losers will sell the most at the forest fundraisers, hand out all the fliers at the rodent parade. Oh, and don't forget, they'll be oh-so supportive of their fellow losers—(what big, sweet balls of fur)!

But don't mind them at all. Because they'll get the reward they deserve, too. That is:

A great, big round of applause!

(WHAT. AN. HONOR).

“So, you see?" I say, bearing my bucky teeth, "then the prettiest squirrel will win, and she won't have to do jack shit."

The squirrel's nose twitched. He was puzzled, but I kept going.

"As I said," I told my friend, “only the prettiest squirrel gets the nut. Because, sure, her personality might be the size of a mulberry. And her voice might grate like the squeal of a trapped mouse, but the high slit of her dress will perfectly showcase her radiant fur. And the emptiness in her eyes will give the judges a sense of whimsical charm. Come to think of it, perhaps they’ll put that nut on her head for a day, just to balance out her empty noggin'."

The squirrel then asked me the same question I have asked myself every day since I entered that squirrely little beauty pageant. "So, why do the squirrels want the nut so badly? Can they eat it?"

And I told him, "Nah. After that one day of being the nuttiest, most fur-bulous squirrel in the forest, that stupid undersized nut...It'll go way up on the highest branch to collect dust, Cobwebs, too.

But! For the rest of her squirrel-ish life, that nut-winning gremlin will brag about it to her colleagues at Squirrels-R-Us. And/or the mama squirrels a rodent play date. Then, no matter where that squirrel goes in life, she'll be The One That Got the Nut."

My friend fidgeted. "But you'd never want to be that squirrel, right?”

I squirmed, proverbial tail twitching. "No—" I cleared my throat. "...of course not."

Other squirrels had gathered to listen by then, and they seemed interested (enough). So, I sat up straight, willing myself to look pleased and said, "I got runner-up, you know...almost got the nut."

Their ears perked up at this, tiny heads cocked to the side. Because runner-up is almost as good as the real thing...right?

The squirrels smiled politely, (or were they bemused)? It was the way a mom smiles

when her kid shoves a scribble-drawing in her face. (Wow, that’s wonderful, Sweetie! Good for you).

And I pretended not to notice. Because they meant well…? Of course they did.

But now my audience was on their way—off to Squirrel Mom Yoga at noon. And I joined them, empty as an acorn cap, starving for the spotlight, itching for redemption, (and nibbling on the electrical wires of ostracism).

Yet somehow…I still clung to hope that my friends' “admiration” would fill the gap on my bookshelf—You know, the place where that squirrel-sized tiara truly belonged.

So, exorbitant crown notwithstanding, I still scamper along to this day, tirelessly chattering about pageant days—(solicited or not). Because just look what I did—(cheeky little me) and all without injecting my face with Nut-tox. No Brazilian tail lift, no chest-nut enhancers,

not even a single whisker extension.

But you know what? That crown was so damn close, I could see my own despondence reflecting inside the gemstones. Close enough that a lesser “squirr-girl” might have snatched it up for herself.

Not me, though. After all, I am elated. Ecstatic to have kept my dignity. (Ahem) Wouldn’t change a thing…

So, ladies and gentle-squirrels, let's say it again—for the rodents in the back.

That's right.

Look at me!

I almost got the nut.