A woman in a TV commercial was jubilant as she explained, “I applied this cream to my face before going to bed. When I awoke, I swear, I looked ten years younger; like I’d had a facelift.”
Seriously? I don’t know anyone who wants to look like they had a facelift. But, she was right. She didn’t look a day over 25.
Oh, wait. — She was 25.
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And how about those TV lingerie commercials, not shown until after 9:00 pm? You know which commercial I’m talking about. Who are they kidding? We know what they’re really selling, and it’s not underwear. Sure I’m envious of the bodies those women are flaunting but I’m curious to know the difference between those ads and semi-soft porn. I’m also interested in knowing what children who stay up past 9:00 pm think of them.
I had a great figure once. For about six minutes. Back then most women wore girdles. Other than giving birth, pulling on a girdle was the most painful experience of my life. I would lie on my bed, on my back, legs raised and extended toward the ceiling, sweating, squirming and struggling to pull that damn girdle down my legs and up over my hips, and waist. Today, I wonder why I even wore a girdle. I had a 21 inch waist, wore a size 9, and thought I was fat.
Years later I was intimidated into buying an updated version of the girdle. This undergarment promised to take inches off my waist and my hips. And, there would be no panty line. Panty line had never been an issue for me, but suddenly I knew I could never again chance having one.
The undergarment was called Spanx. It took ten minutes to wedge my body into this garment which, when unfolded and laid out flat, was the size of my fist. By the time I got the damn thing on, I was sweating, exhausted, could barely breathe, and was packed in so tightly, my legs were numb. And, I could only walk in tiny staccato steps, like a windup toy soldier. But the saleswoman was right; my waist and hips were narrower, and my butt did look smaller.
However, the fat had to go somewhere and I ended up with thighs the size of torpedoes and an extra set of breasts.
No doubt this contraption had been designed by someone unfamiliar with, or indifferent to, a woman’s anatomy, because going to the bathroom while stuffed into this sausage skin would have made a great Mission Impossible episode.
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I read that in an interview Kate Winslet, star of Titanic, said “Aging is about wisdom and grace.” She’s a lovely lady, but I believe her opinion is flawed. Aging is more about sleep deprivation and searching for your car in the parking lot. Let’s see if her opinion is as lofty in twenty years.
Regarding wisdom, I don’t recall ever having much. I didn’t have it when I married far too young, and I certainly didn’t acquire it during those many years my reading selection consisted primarily of Doctor Seuss, Doctor Spock, and books with catchy phrases like “See Spot run.” My traveling experiences back then extended from my driveway to places I passed en route to Cub Scouts, Sunday School, Soccer practice, gymnastic, Little League and Hockey. I never grasped the full extent of my ignorance until recently, when I faced the fact that my grandchildren understand computers, and can spell the names of every dinosaur, while I can do neither.
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Another thing I could live without are those irritating, distracting, blips that pop up on my TV screen while I’m watching a show, to advertise coming attractions of other shows. Whatever happened to good old non- intrusive, illegal, subliminal advertising? I don’t mind being annoyed and brainwashed if I’m not aware of it.
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I used to love going to the movies, but not since commercials have been added to the lineup. It’s bad enough sitting through twenty minutes of loud previews of coming attractions, but now movie goers are held captive and forced to watch commercials they’d ordinarily avoid at home, by surfing channels, or obliterating them entirely with a click of their TiVo button.
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The radio announcer was promoting *Softique, skin cream for women, guaranteed to make them look younger. He started by saying, “I overheard a group of women discussing what they hoped to receive from their husbands for Valentine’s Day. As I listened I knew that Softique would be the perfect gift, to show how much he cares.”
Apparently the research department hadn’t done its job, because I don’t think there’s a woman alive who would welcome a gift from her husband that shouts, “Here, honey. Maybe this will make you look better.”
A guarantee came with it. The announcer said, “If you aren’t satisfied with Softique, return it to us and we’ll email your money back to you.”
Huh? Can someone explain how that works?
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Every year, right before Valentine’s Day, I hear advertisements encouraging men to make the woman in their life ecstatically happy by having a star named for her. The ad basically says that for a mere $54 the recipient of this thoughtful gift will be overcome with love, every time she searches the galaxy for her shimmering namesake.
Call me cynical, but paying good money for a star you’ll probably never locate makes about as much sense as building your dream house on the San Andreas Fault. I suspect that women will be more apt to elicit the kind of response men appreciate if they’re given something that sparkles on their finger rather than in the sky.
* Fictitious name