Dear Society,
An Exquisite Corpse by
Hilary Ayshford, Joyce Bingham, Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos, Megan Hanlon, T. L. Tomljanovic
Photo by Jesús Esteban San José /Pexels
A word on those beauties ‘ageing gracefully’ according to social media. What is graceful about Botox, drastic diets, slimming pills, or plastic surgery? What kind of example do those manufactured women (yes I’m using that word because someone has to) offer to the younger generation? And how dare the media call this ‘anti-ageing process’ peaceful when they go through so much pain to destroy their natural charm, after being indoctrinated by a society that demands eternal youth and beauty? Are we cloning those products? Because they all end up with the same straight nose, same bulbous lips, high cheekbones, Brazilian-lifted bums, and plump boobs. A new doll for society to play with.
The thing about dolls, though, is that one minute they're all the rage and the next they're lying forgotten in the back of a cupboard or in the attic gathering dust. In the 1960s it was Barbie, soon joined by Ken, then Chatty Cathy and Action Man; in the 1980s and 90s Baby Alive gave way to the Cabbage Patch Kids, Tickle Me Elmo, Beanie Babies and Furbies. Then along came Bratz, Elsa, a Barbie resurrection, and now Labubu. The expression 'going viral' is particularly appropriate: these crazes spread faster than Covid at the height of the pandemic. And while they are relatively harmless compared with a life-threatening virus, they can engender envy, division, jealousy, poverty and stress, not least among parents searching desperately at Christmas for things that have been out of stock since October. There is no rhyme nor reason behind the popularity of these must-have dolls; some influencer on social media has declared them desirable, or a celebrity has been seen in possession of one – it's hard to tell which one inspired the other, but suddenly the craze is off and running like wildfire, leaving devastation in its wake, and can only be extinguished when the next 'big thing' happens along. Instead of giving children a fatuous-faced plush bag stuffed with plastic beads, this festive season let's give children books that will fill their heads with thoughts and ideas that will grow with them and last them a lifetime. Let's show them that it's okay to be different, that they can think for themselves and don't have to follow the crowd, and that achievements are not measured in likes, clicks and followers. Today's must-haves are nothing more than tomorrow's junk. They are a waste of money, space and resources, and as pointless and empty-headed as those who push them at their gullible followers.
Where is the collective outrage? Why do we wring our hands and shake our heads but refuse decisive action? Perhaps we who lie in soft beds under skies that aren't exploding have forgotten what is precious - the freedom to think independent thoughts, the safety to tell our truths, the power inherent in united groups of people who stand up and cry "no more." What more needs to happen before we finally respond?
What more needs to happen before we finally respond? Will any of us be here? The distrust of science is so concerning; our collective health is on the line. The demise of humans is on its way. We can initiate the death of damaged cells using our own self-destruct genes. Is there a gene coded for destruction of the entire species? We have activated suspicion, hatred and violence preparing our way for extinction. We thought the Gaia theory would destroy us with climate change, instead it’s been within us all this time. How do we switch off our self-destruct? How do we make our voices heard?
When I can’t make out the server’s voice amidst the cacophony of clattering cutlery, friends dishing, and families fighting at Olive Garden on all-you-can-eat pasta night. My daughter is asking me something again, and I keep saying, “What? What? WHAT?!” My ears ache. I’m pretty sure I’m going deaf except that I just had my hearing checked at my husband’s urging, so it’s not that. Is this another symptom of perimenopause? Like vaginal dryness and invisibility? All the box breathing in the world can’t drown out the incessant ping of algorithms sniffing out my middle-aged weakness and flooding my feed with weighted vests, belly fat blasting supplements, and hands-free portable neck fans. I mean, I added each to cart. That's my prerogative. But I draw the line at pickleball.
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