As a rude and vaguely goth teenager, cheerleading put a fat chink in my ego’s armor. But I kind of loved it, and I hated that I loved it.
We all felt insecure in our own ways, but we especially hated our bodies. We hated their shapes and sizes and limitations and the way they would stink under the heat of thick polyester uniforms.
We’d wrap our stomachs in saran wrap and sit in the splits while thumbing through Spanish flashcards hoping that throwing up cafeteria peas and perfecting our jumps might solve all our problems.
It didn’t, obviously.
The most futile methods of disguise were our perfumes. From Victoria’s Secret to Pink Sugar or some other sickeningly sweet so-and-so, each one of us would spray ourselves to death with the most cloying scents we could find. My favorite was Circus Fantasy by Britney Spears.
Despite our best efforts to smell as if we hadn’t been throwing each other into the air for hours on end, it was no use: we reeked.
Recently, a friend from my team took her life and I feel a rot in those scents that once comforted me.
I sheepishly wore Circus Fantasy around my house the other day as I cleaned my oven, almost able to smell the vinyl gym floor and our salty, warm bodies.
One day I will be able to recall that smell better than I can remember her voice.
“BS” is a 1:1 combination of Circus Fantasy and tar and smoke fleuressence.
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