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Broccoli Spears, aka Jeffrey Simmons, gets ready for “her” close-up at the Mr. Bland Relay pageant. Photo by Jean Farley

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OUT OF FOCUS: An (un)natural woman

Author’s note: Out of focus. Have you ever felt like your life’s a blur? The period between Christmases seems more like an afternoon than a year, and playing house has turned into paying house. To put my, and I hope your, life into better perspective, I’m starting a new series about living in the moment – about getting outside my comfort zone to try something that makes me stronger but will more than likely kill me – or make me whine like it did. Hope you enjoy the joyful delusion.

By JEFFREY SIMMONS/Staff

Women of the world, you have my sympathy.
My feet are still aching from the high heels. My fishnets got snagged in a baby stroller, and taking off eye shadow is akin to stripping paint off a battle ship.
Yes, on Saturday evening, I daubed on the makeup, squeezed into a little black dress, smoothed out my luxurious synthetic locks and competed with 25 other equally deranged cuties – including co-worker Mark Sage—in a male beauty pageant to raise money for the American Cancer Society.
The brainchild of Bland County’s Strock Family and Friends Relay for Life team, the second-year Mr. Bland Relay 2008 event generated tons of cash and tons of laughs inside the Bland High School gym.
Channeling my inner talent-devoid female celebrity, I entered the competition as Broccoli “oops I did it again” Spears. The field also included Sofonda Men, Tan ya Hyde, Tomeana Josephina and Lula Jo Darling.
After a quick pre-pageant run-through on Saturday, we all retired to the dressing rooms to preen and primp for the main extravaganza.
Think football team getting ready for a Vegas showgirl tryout.
Hair spray was flying; makeup was flowing; feathery boas were shedding, and dresses and pantsuits of every conceivable style and size were zipping and strapping. There were also enough half-inflated balloons floating around to make me think I had accidentally stumbled into the Republican – well, make that Democratic – National Convention.
The pageant was divided up into two segments – the first one an “outfit of choice” promenade and the second a formal dress competition.
Although my to-die-for pink heels were loaners, my other two outfits came from that darling little French fashion boutique – Le’ Goodwill.
My wife and I had a grand old awkward time trying to figure out if this skirt or that blouse would fit “me…I mean her” without actually using the dressing room and getting the police involved. Just in case you’re keeping score, I’m a 10 – my personal assessment of my womanly transformation, my pageant number and my gown size.
Modeling one of my fabulously chic second-hand purchases – a leopard-print blouse and black skirt that I had pulled up near my shoulders to make it shorter and give me a more flattering waistline, I shimmied onto the gym floor to the refrains of alter ego Britney Spears’ “Baby One More Time.”
To demonstrate my persona’s exceptional parenting skills, I carried “Sprout,” a handmade Goodwill baby doll complete with a headset and an empty can of Old Milwaukee I found in the ditch before the pageant. After my wayward child lost his short pants during a bit of over-exuberant twirling on my part, I would later learn that his seamstress was apparently a stickler for anatomical correctness.
Anyhow, after passing before the judges and the spectators, which included my amused mother and equally traumatized father, we all shuffled backstage to gear up for round two.
By this time, I needed to use the women/men’s room, I was starting to get hot in the mass of gender-bending humanity, and I was starving to death. Although the organizers had graciously set out sandwiches and chips for the contestants, I dared not sample one for fear of grossing myself out with a red lipstick smudge on white bread.
That’s the real reason models weigh less than a mosquito on Weight Watchers.
After a bit more waiting, we headed out again in our formal attire. Some entrants blew kisses, some waved, some flexed and some stumbled.
As the judges did their judging, the contestants stood awkwardly along the out-of-bounds line, which was certainly a bit of ironic understatement.
Finally, the top 10 stepped forward and the remaining contestants did a final lap around the gymnasium, which included a spectacular tumbling routine by one participant who headed into the stands and learned a hard lesson about high heels and heights.
Those who made the cut, me included, had to answer one question from the host. For days and weeks I’d been struggling with how to voice my character should the need arise, and what finally came out was a cross between Mr. Bill and Margaret Thatcher.
“What famous person would you invite to a dinner party and why?” asked the host as he stuck a microphone in my garishly made up mug.
“Not Oprah because she’d probably eat all the appetizers,” I answered, terrifying myself and all the dogs within a three-mile radius. “Probably Chef Boyardee and that Keebler Elf dude because they’re both really hot and would probably bring cookies.”
Perhaps confused by my response or hypnotized by my falsetto vocalizations, the judges saw fit to award me second runner-up, which came with a sash, a bouquet of roses and a handsome attaché full of men’s grooming products designed to squelch any lingering gender confusion.
Although I didn’t get this randomly chose question during the finals, I’d like to answer it anyway.
“What impact do you think entering this pageant will have on your life”?
One, my wife and I can start raiding each other’s closets when the clean clothes get low.
Two, I will never again question the prep-time that goes into any woman’s public appearances.
Three, women of the world are my new heroes. Sure, we invented the light bulb, liberated Europe from the Nazis and won the Super Bowl, but the fairer sex has also exhibited its share of historical greatness, and, more impressively, done it all in hose and heels.
Jeffrey Simmons can be reached at 1-800-655-1406 or .