Call me the tumblin’ diceLast month I found myself the substitute player at a Bunco party where every one of the thirteen women was a former high school cheerleader. Me, the person who skipped any high school assembly remotely promoting "spirit" to drink coffee at Denny's, the classic dichotomy of Us vs. Them, the Jocks vs. the Goths, intense as gang warfare.
When I received the invitation to be a substitute player in the form of a cheery call from my sister-in-law, a twinge of post-angst nostalgia ground beneath my thirty-five-year-old bones. I was forced to cross a line no less important than a political or religious conviction, hanging out with my hometown's ex-cheerleaders. Still, I said yes, intrigued with the chance to observe my generation's version of something close to the American Dream.
I won't pretend to grasp why some girls want to be cheerleaders any more than I can understand why groups of women all over the country meet once a month to roll dice. And I hated to admit it, but I was nervous. As they say, I didn't want to throw away the "street cred" I had earned from years of calf-busting platform shoes and Morrissey concerts and too many bottles of black nail polish to count just to fit in - even for one night.
