My past still haunts me. I confess: I was a cheerleader.

Yes, it's true. There was a time when running around in nothing more than midriff-bearing tops and teeny skirts made me happy. I loved poms. I owned Kappa sneakers. I took private gymnastic lessons. I carried a megaphone. I suffered injuries (and think I have the early signs of an arthritic knee and wrist). There were no qualms about wearing warm up suits. I did spirit fingers and made rock and roll signs with my hands. Sponge curlers are a useful hair styling tool and I know how to use them. Never dropped a Spirit Stick and yes, I brought it on.

Okay, so it's out there. I started in the 4th grade and was hooked. It was girly and it was fun and by 5th grade, I was a captain and my sister was my coach (At the time, I didn't think one thing had to do with the other, now it's sort of obvious, although I was pretty damn dedicated). We cheered during the fall for boys basketball and in the winter we competed. Hard core. We didn't mess.

By high school, Spanish and I were all but drafted as freshman onto the varsity squad. Our talent was sort of benched for year since we were the newbies but we went to Nationals, hit the big blue mat, and watched the seniors choke. Whatever, we had three more years. Oh, and we weren't allowed to cheer for the boys school since they had thrown condoms at squads in the past. We cheered for the girls basketball team.

Sophmore year, at one point, I had to tumble five times in our routine. I coined the term "backheadspring" since would sort of flop over on my head and stand up. I'm sure I had concussions and looking back, I am thankful I never broke my neck. Nationals again, we were better this time but not good enough.

Junior year, at this point, most of my friends were on my team. Coincdentally, I hated the rest of our team. Florida again. More choking. I got in trouble for flirting with ugly male cheerleaders. It was retarded and we sort of sucked. But we got new uniforms. I remember this because I had a 22 inch waist a 6-pack at the time. Ha! I became the girl who showed up in her uniform reeking of ciggies.

Senior year, Spanish and I defected to an All-Star team. At this point I was sticking with it for college and secretly wanted to be a coach/instructor. We got uniforms that showed our stomachs. We had a fat girl on our team. That was mean. At one point, I slept through the SAT II's because I was awake from a practice and was stressed about a competition the same day. I drove in a blizzard, visit several doctors for my wrist injury, and finally got on a squad that didn't choke. We rocked every competition. Until nationals, when due to an injury that happened 5 minutes before we hit the mats, Spanish's base couldn't really perform well. Boo. I hung up my shoes that day. Literally, on my wall.

There were camps (retarded because I could never find a place to smoke) and clinics and bake sales and pep rallys. I loved it. Until it stopped being fun. By college I was done and I just wanted to drink and smoke. I went to a meeting to see what our team was about. They didn't compete and they sucked so I bailed. Although, if I knew then what would happen to my teeny taut body then what I know now I would have slapped the smile on and picked up the poms.

Okay, all that boring shit aside, I stumbled on this website yesterday and found this:

REALLY? How old are these kids, 5, maybe 6? And the kid bellys are in full effect ('cept for my girl in the middle, she's ripped!). Full makeup and hair too! Since when is something that requires extreme agility, strength, and flexibility, a training camp for TEENY WHORES?

If you look at pic of me when I was 9, my skirt is clearly down to my knees. Our tops were sweater material. Not all this silver polyester sparkle and baby belly. This just makes me angry. My mom would NEVER let me rock this gear. I hope these poor kids don't lose their viriginty under the bleachers after the big game.

I pray I have only sons.