Life would be so much easier if I were a cartoon character. I’m not talking about the kind of cartoon where the piano zooms down from the upper floors of a skyscraper and lands on the hapless rabbit, flattening him into the sidewalk, after which he staggers around a bit with stars shooting out of his head and then varooooooom, he’s off to the races.

The cartoon character I’d most like to be comes out of the pages of graphic novels, category: romance. If I were one of those cartoon characters, I would have thick, wavy, shoulder-length golden hair, huge tits, a narrow waist, and long, curvy legs. I would have big blue eyes with long lashes, a mouth just begging to be kissed, and Prince Charmings by the dozen lining up for my favors.

But life is not easy, and my name’s not Diana or Paris or Angelina. It’s Maude. Maudes, as we all know, are homely. They are built like pencils (or barns). They are either the teacher’s pet or what is called “developmentally challenged.” Maudes tend to hunch over when they walk. They hover on the sidelines, too shy to step forward. They are the last picked for the team and the first singled out for ridicule by bullies.

All of this makes life hard. And, no. I am not complaining; just stating a fact. I learned years ago that whining only confirms people’s worst opinions of somebody named Maude.

I am reliable, hard-working, loyal, dutiful, and altruistic. Oh, yes, and meek too. Add that to the list. These are virtues, are they not? But they’re not what people really look for in a woman. Or at least I have yet to discover a guy who notices anything beyond the physical.

Clarence told me if I wanted to be one of those cartoon babes, I should start acting like one. “You need to dress like them and wear makeup” was the way he put it. Clarence does the corporate travel accounts, while I do the individuals—families, singles, and such. But since Clarence has a new girlfriend practically every week, I couldn’t ignore his advice.

My first stop was Rose’s Beauty Barre (the most expensive salon in town). Normally, when I bother to go to a hair salon, they put me way in the back with the most junior stylist, and I come out looking pretty much like I did when I went in. This time, I marched right up to the receptionist and said, “The National Long-Haulers Association’s gonna pick Miss Eighteen Wheeler at their convention next week, and I’m one of the finalists.”

She looked me over carefully. “Finalist, huh?” To give her credit, she didn’t choke on her bubble gum.

“You’d be surprised how good I clean up.” Using my fingers, I ticked off the things I wanted: hairstyle, facial with makeup, manicure, pedicure, waxing, the works.

With a toss of her carefully tousled hairdo, she led me to the chief stylist, none other than Rose herself, whose work station was strategically located right in front of the bay window overlooking Main Street. And several hours later, I stood transfixed in front of Rose’s mirror.

Who was this babe? Highlights had made my mousy brown hair look blond but not peroxided. The makeup they’d shown me how to apply put hollows in my cheeks where none had existed before. I no longer had bushy eyebrows either. I looked. . . Well, let’s say I was still a long way from cartoon heaven, but closer than I’d ever dreamed.

And Clarence was amazed. “Shee-ut, Maude, how’m I gonna get any work done around here with you bein’ such a big distraction?”

Mrs. Hopewell, who always goes to Aruba in February, was astonished when she walked in the door to pick up her tickets. “Goodness, I barely recognized you,” she said, taking off her glasses as if that would help. “Got a date tonight?”

As if. But I told her I did, since otherwise it didn’t make much sense me spending nearly all of next month’s salary on self-improvement.

“I’ll take you down to Sweeney’s,” said Clarence as the door swung closed behind Mrs. Hopewell’s substantial hips.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Feeling charitable, Clare?”

His face reddened. “Actually, Suzy canceled on me. We were going to catch a movie, but she’s got a cold.”

Right, and good ol’ Maude might be okay as a stand-in. I was about ready to tell him what I thought of that bright idea when a dark-haired man walked through the door. “Are you Maude Jones?”

Talk about stepping out of the pages of a graphic novel! He could have been a clone of George Clooney, with his dark hair and eyes and that long, lean frame. My mouth went dry, but I managed a nod. “How can I help you?”

“Uh, well, I’m with the Long-Hauler’s Association, and somebody named Rose Barlow called me to see if she could get some free advertising at our convention next week.”

Uh-oh.

“She mentioned you were a finalist in the Miss Eighteen Wheeler contest, but I can’t find your name on the list.”

Clarence coughed, and I sent him a look. “Really? I got the notification a while ago, and I just thought—”

“No problem. These things happen.” He paused, pulling out a spiral notebook. “So it’s Maude with an e?”

“Yes.” My heart was racing, as a tiny voice in my brain kept urging me to own up.

“Good, now if I could just have your e-mail address? I’ll send you the details.”

What choice did I have? I could have given him a something phony, but Clarence was sitting right there, eyes bigger than saucers. I told myself no one was going to force me to go and make a fool of myself. But I couldn’t help asking if “the details” happened to include photos of the other finalists.

“Absolutely,” said Tall Dark and Handsome. He pulled a digital camera out of his pocket, said “cheese,” and momentarily blinded me with the flash. “I’ll send this to the other contestants. And, of course, the organizers will want one so they recognize you when you show up.” With a nod, an approving once-over, and a wink, he left.

“Don’t even start,” I growled at Clarence. “It’s just a misunderstanding is all.”

“So why didn’t you tell the guy?”

Good question. I sighed. “I bet his name is Trent or Chase.”

Clarence laughed. “Miss Eighteen Wheeler. Man oh man. You gotta believe.”

That got me all hot under the collar again, despite knowing he was right. Maudes may do many things, but they never win beauty contests.

The details arrived as promised, and Clarence showed up not long afterward with a gift card for Madison’s Dress Shoppe.

“The long slinky green number with sequins?” he said. “Just the thing.”

“But I can’t—”

“Oh, yes you can,” he said, scowling. “I got money riding on this. You can take the gown back afterwards. Tell ’em you changed your mind.”

Given all the character traits associated with people named Maude, you know there’s no way in hell I’d stoop to returning a garment that I’d already worn. And, yes, by then I realized I had to go through with it. If nothing else, life has taught Maudes like me everything there is to know about losing. Besides, I owed it to Rose of the Beauty Barre and to Clarence—even though I knew at which end of the win-lose spectrum Clarence had placed his bet.

One week later, I found myself parading up to that stage in my green sequined gown (which really did look good), along with Cindy and Kirstie and Emily, each of whom had the polished smile and slinky strut of a true pro. I kept telling myself to keep my shoulders back and smile like the only person in that hall full of half-drunk truck drivers was Mr. Hottie himself.

Before I could say “holy shmoley” they were putting a diamond-like tiara on my head and tears were running down my cheeks, smearing my mascara, and Emily, Cindy, and Kirstie were hugging me, and a sash somehow found its way over one shoulder and the flashbulbs kept popping and somebody was saying, “Miss Eighteen Wheeler of Two Thousand Eight, Mandy Jones!”

Mandy? Chase or Trent or whoever he was must have got it wrong. Either that or he knew all too well what they say about people named Maude. Just wouldn’t work, would it?

Life would be easier if I hadn’t won that beauty contest. Since then, I’ve had to get an answering machine to screen calls from various locals who’d never paid me a bit of attention before. And then there’s the invitation I got last week to compete in a contest in Bridgeville, Delaware, to become Miss Apple Scrapple of 2009. Considering how the invitation was addressed, I’m going to have to go down to the courthouse real soon and make Mandy official.

About the Author: Caroline Taylor

Inspired by a “Mary Worth” comic strip episode featuring a beauty contestant who wouldn’t smile (and won anyway), Caroline Taylor once competed for the title of Miss Biggs Air Force Base (and did not win). Her short stories have appeared in Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine and The First Line. She lives in Washington, D.C.