Last week I left myself in a terrible quandary. I'd taken on the job of being my team's entry in the "Miss Relay" contest at our local Relay For Life. Pushing past my discomfort, I made my way through the local thrift stores buying parts for my costume, which included a garish black-and-white checked dress, large rhinestone-studded sunglasses and a clutch handbag. I tried for comfortable shoes, but nothing I could have afforded would have brought any comfort when I finally realized that I would appear at a major community event in drag.

I admit it. By the time Relay came I looked forward to the Miss Relay competition. The clown in me took over, and I wondered just how far I could carry the act. I tried the whole costume on at home and even took a picture just to get the full effect. Much to my dismay, when I looked at what I was sure had been a perfect Betty Grable pose, I was startled to see that I looked a bit like my grandmother, except for one important difference: That stupid dress gave me a butt the size of a boxcar!

The one thing that still evaded me, however, was a feminine voice to go with my new look. I couldn't go around just talking like me, but none of the voices I tried really fit the character. I tried high and gravelly; it came out way too Pythonesque. I tried low and sultry; I sounded like Mae West with a head cold.

Relay weekend came warm, sunny and dry. We took a few laps around the track on Friday afternoon, greeted the kids who came to play our games, and strolled through some of the other booths. Carolyn and I waited in line at the Survivors' Dinner as the starting time for Miss Relay drew very close. The summer sun spent the day heating up the dinner tent, the line crawled along, and I became impatient. "If we're not eating by seven," I grumbled, "I'm going to have to bail." Carolyn reminded me that she had to eat, so she wouldn't bail with me. That was fine; I just wanted to get going.

The official photographer took team photos at a spot near where we stood. I saw a few brave contestants already in their costumes, posing with their teams. Well, that settles it. I thought to myself. If those guys can get their pictures taken like that, I can do this thing too.

The serving line finally moved. I picked up a plate right at the very stroke of seven o'clock. Three minutes later we were served and seated. I wolfed down a large serving of what was probably very good pulled pork and excused myself. I quick-stepped back to our booth and climbed into the gear tent, pulling the flap shut.

Okay, I thought, here goes. I peeled off my purple "Survivor" t-shirt, pulled open my backpack and dragged out the dress, bag and sandals. I pulled on the wig and gave it a quick fluff, popped the sunglasses on, picked up my purse, and then added the finishing touch: A pink fake-fur boa I'd found at the dollar store. Stepping to the door rather carefully, as the old canvas tent had suddenly become very dark, I straightened up my dress...it was showtime!

Tossing the flap aside, I stepped out into the daylight. "Hello, boys and girls!" I drawled. There it is! I thought, I found the voice! Miss Theresa, it seemed, was what Peter Ostruchko of A Prairie Home Companion describes as a D.F.S.W.; a Delicate Flower of Southern Womanhood. True, she fell somewhere to the matronly side of a cheesy Blanche DuBois, but there she was...all Southern, and at least externally, All Woman.

I strolled up and down the front of the tent, playing to the laughter and amazement of my teammates. I paused and put a hand on my hip, thrusting out my behind. Then I licked my finger and, with a great flourish, pressed it daintily to my backside with a loud "TSSSSSSSSSSSS!" Our pastor's daughter, a young woman of about 25, nearly laughed herself to tears.

A local photographer, who's also the dad of one of my Boy Scouts, happened to pass our booth as the spectacle began. His double-take, augmented by the weight of the massive digital SLR dangling around his neck, nearly threw him to the ground. "You know where this is going," he said as he raised his camera. The front wall of the Scout Cabin, of course. As long as I was busted anyway, I decided to make the best of it and struck a demure pose. "Walk a girl to the stage, sir?" I purred after he took his best shot. We locked arms and strolled to the front of the event. I tried walking like a runway model, striding along placing one foot directly in front of the other. I shook what Mama gave me and then some, possibly tripping seismic alarms throughout the Great Lakes region.

Other contestants milled about in front of the stage and a large crowd waited in the bleachers. I estimated that most of the assembled beauties were in their forties, although there were a few in their teens. One brave young soul looked about nine, dolled up in a long black flapper-style dress with a red scarf flowing down from around his black beehive. I turned to a kid of about thirteen who stood next to me in a pastel-flowered headband and white t-shirt and mini-skirt. "You're one of the brave ones," I said. "It's OK," he said. "I'm getting paid."

The announcer called the event to order, asking each contestant his Miss Relay name, what team he was from, and why he wanted to be Miss Relay. I leaned into the microphone at my turn. "Hi, Ah'm Theresa, from the First Baptist Church team," I drawled, laying on enough syrup to float a short stack of pancakes. "Ah'm the 'Before' picture." I heard my friends laughing in the crowd. "If you're the 'Before' picture, the announcer mugged, "I'd hate to see the 'After.'" Ha ha ha, you're lucky I'm temporarily a lady! He asked me why I wanted to be Miss Relay. "There's only one reason, Hon," I said. "I'm in this to beat cancer!" The crowd gave its boisterous approval, and Mr. Announcer moved on to the next contestant, a tall guy in a tight blue cocktail dress and rainbow-colored feather boa.

Once we'd been introduced, the competition was launched. We had half an hour to collect as much money from the crowd as we could. Miss Relay would then be crowned at 8:15. Well, I said to myself as I waddled down the track, this puts 'drag racing' in a whole new light. I hit several booths, but somehow always just behind another contestant! Fortunately, people dug deep for a good cause. My purse began to fill out.

I made a special stop at the United Methodist Church's booth. A couple of my fellow former Scoutmasters watched the goings-on from their folding chairs. I made my way inside. Turning on the coy charm, I asked, "Help a girl out?" They both opened their wallets and dropped in decent donations. "Thank you boys," I said, dripping sweetness like a honeycomb. "Ah have so often depended on the khandness of strangers." Just to play it to the hilt, I gave one of the guys, a fellow named Rick, a pat on the bottom as I departed. Thank Heaven he had a sense of humor about it and didn't give me a right to the chops!

I finished my rounds in just under a half-hour, just in time to turn in my money and rush off for the team picture. I waited with a boy named Jared, who's about seven and fighting a cancer battle of his own. His older brother Nick, an A-Number-One caregiver of about 14, stood nearby. "Hey Jared," I said, "next year when you're better, maybe you can be Miss Relay and I'll let you wear my dress!"

He looked at me like I'd just climbed out of a spaceship.

"No?" I gasped, feigning shock and dismay. I looked up at his brother. "Well, OK, how about if we make Nick do it?" The boy in the black bandanna popped up a big smile.

After the picture, I went back to the booth for a short break before the crowning of the winner. Once the excitement was over, a little self-conciousness crept in as I waited in my polyester wig and pink boa. But what the heck? People knew the score, and I'd be done soon anyway. At 8:15 all us soon-to-be-former girls lined up one last time. I couldn't wait to see how I'd done. As it turned out, I hadn't done very well. I didn't even come close to the several-hundred-dollar total that this year's Miss Relay, in her long white gown, opera gloves and cape, brought in. Still, I'm glad I tried. And like the lady from American Cancer Society said, even if you brought in twenty bucks, it's twenty more than we had.

Rick came by as I packed up my truck to go home the next morning. "You were enjoying wearing that dress a little too much!" he said. "That old broad was a caution, wasn't she?" I laughed. "I think she's long gone by now. You're safe." I tossed the wig box and my backpack in the back of the truck. Miss Theresa may be gone, Sugar, but she'll be back. Maybe next year she'll be a salloon singer. I climbed in the cab, with only a little putting-away between me and a good hot shower. I drove off, humming a jazzy "You're Nobody 'til Somebody Loves You."