From The Rhinestone Sisterhood:
Chelsea, the Frog Queen, is getting butterflies at the very thought of her first walk in her royal regalia. Since most festival events require girls to wear only crown and banner, the few balls and pageants that do specify train and mantle are big deals. For years, Chelsea has watched other queens make their way solemnly down center aisles, trains stretching yards behind them, mantles framing their beautiful faces like gossamer wings, and she always knew that someday she would, too. But now that night is here and she's thinking about the reality of this scenario: 15lbs of regalia is roughly 16% of her body weight, and she's never tried wearing it all at once before, much less while walking in four-inch platform heels.
As the Queens enter the Rice Hall, it is easy to understand the appeal of this tradition. With crowns and scepters catching the spotlight's glow, they are moving light-bearers. Faces at once young and regal, they carry history with them in every step. To see them is to see all their predecessors, the ones who walked this same aisle last year and ten years ago and twenty more before that. At my table of ten, every single person is the parent, sibling, relative, or friend of a past festival queen. For those gathered here tonight, these queens are their native culture, the grand myth of a people sewn into velvet and silk, underlined in rhinestones.
As thrilling as it must be for the girls to carry such a role, it is not always effortless. Some of them glide up the aisle as if wearing mantles made of chiffon or clouds, while others go slowly and with so much focus, one imagines them uttering silent prayers that they will not trip on their own hems. Miss Evangeline Oil & Gas discovers an engineering problem: already a tall girl, she has added high heels and a yard-high mantle to her stature, the sum total of which renders her so Amazon-like that she cannot pass through the door at full height. To enter the ball, she must duck, not easy on stilettos and in a straight-line evening gown. To pull it off, she imitates a giraffe, knees kissing while ankles fan out, dipping her crown-heavy head and lowering her mantle just enough to scoot under, and then manages to keep going, never loosening her grip on her scepter.
Queen after queen goes by until the final one, Chelsea, comes into view. She takes a deep breath, straightens her shoulders, and enters the ball. She takes tiny steps, testing the weight and drag of the green velvet train which stretches behind her. The pragmatic detail of the plastic underside lining, while ostensibly making the fabric glide along more elegantly, comes with a down side; as the train swooshes noisily up the aisle, it sounds exactly as you'd expect: like a heavy plastic sack being dragged across a cement floor. Even so, Chelsea is doing beautifully: her smile bright, her posture perfect, a girl unimpaired by her elegant load. Until the turn.
She has almost made it, has arrived at the front of the auditorium and nodded in royal greeting at the seated queen and now needs only to find her way to her assigned chair. There's the rub. The queens must make a u-turn at this point, reversing course and heading for the back of the room, this time passing on the far side of the honor guard. Chelsea tries to turn gracefully and finds her train, which is over six feet wide, resistant. She gamely forges on, even as one corner of the train catches on the boot of a soldier. If it were you or I standing there, our footwork impeding the progress of a queen, the natural impulse would be to solve the problem by simply lifting the foot in question out of the way. But an honor guardsman isn't made an honor guardsman for his flexibility. Impassive precision being the hallmark of duty, the soldier neither glances down at his boot, nor moves it.
Every step further away from the guard pulls more of Chelsea's train over his foot, first swallowing the toe and then the tongue and then heading upward toward the ankle. Soon enough the rippling train stops slithering along completely, settling into a tight green coil as it consumes the entire boot, a gem-studded python gorging on leather. The soldier does not move and the fat snake of fabric does not move and so Chelsea, finally, can move no further. She is a prisoner of velvet...
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