We are all suckers.

We are putty in the hands of corporations.

But you! The young ones!

How awful it must be for you!

I honestly hadn't given this much thought- till a reader mentioned it as a concern and perhaps something I should touch on.

I spent many hours in thought.

During an interval, I had both boys in my room playing with the kittens. The dog too. They were waiting for me to 'change' so we could take a walk on the beach. I was into my fourth outfit try-on. (Some expletives had followed the dismissal of each one and feature in several vids of kittens learning to 'play-fight'.)

Me to Dylan, exasperated: "I told you, didn't I? Didn't I? I told you once a warm day came, I'd look fucking pregnant again!" (This because a previous conversation had taken place when he was in my room a couple of weeks back and I'd proudly shown off my flat stomach and got that other remark back: "Ye but your ass is flat too, mum.")

Dylan: "Phantom pregnancy again?" (Glee at my misfortune.)

Me: "Look!" (I was in a singlet and a pair of their hand-me-down Primary-School-age Richmond Footy Club jocks- the item I reach for when I have to wear underwear; they fit, damn it!)

Dylan: "Suck in your gut and hold your breath?"

Me: (Doing as he said and speaking in a very high-pitched voice) "I talk funny if I do this! Oh God, now I look like I am wearing a bloody sack!" (This, because I'd slipped on a dress mum had recently brought back from my cousin's boutique in Europe. It was what we call here a "Plus Size" store; the dress was... billowing; the sleeveless armholes almost at waist-level. I'd thrown it on thinking the 'looseness' would hide my... bloatedness?)

Dylan: "Mum- who cares?"

Me: "Huh?"

Me after several seconds of staring at his raised eyebrows: "Ohhhhhhh!"

I repeated it in my head: "Who cares?" Then I added some other stuff: "Who bloody cares whether I am bloated or not today? Who the fuck? Nobody is interested in the state of my stomach or what cycle it might be in! And if they are, then they are of no value to me anyway!"

Ohhhhhhh...

Why did I care so much, then?

I was my only and worst critic!

Like hell!

I whipped the sack off and threw on the perfect dress. (I just reached for the next one and put it on. Perfect.)

My young reader's thoughts still being mulled in the background, I, too, thought some more:

We tell ourselves that we need to 'perfect' our outer selves in order to appear... appealing, desirable, 'worth keeping', ideal... we tell ourselves that we must buy this or that; because of its promises. Wear makeup this way, cut hair in that style; dress in this manner, copy that celebrity's body image; the other's mannerisms.

We do this because we have been conditioned to seek close-to perfection. In every circumstance. We have been consistently and relentlessly bombarded by perfection as the ideal to aspire to. Our higher brain knows this perfection is both elusive and unattainable however so there's discord:

"I don't wanna look like everyone else or even care about how I look!"

   "What if you see your perfect mate huh? And they see you looking like this!"

"But this is me! They'd be seeing ME! With all my imperfections."

   "And... then they'd be running. Been there, done that, haven't we?"

"Fuck off!"

Really.

Because I was doing IT again.

What a vain, superficial thing I was being before I came to my senses via Dylan! And what example had I presented to my sons? I'd brought them up to see appearance as unimportant to the contents- they'd had the McDonald's lesson. Yet here I'd been, obsessing over the current state of my belly. Seriously. Me. With this book, expounding freedom and no rules and individuality... chained to mass consumed insecurities. ME!

Later, at the supermarket, I spotted a very senior lady. She must have been somewhere near either side of ninety. She wore a green leather miniskirt, black tights, ankle boots and... sported a curly hairstyle (including some green bits) beneath a bright red beret.

"That be me!" I said to Dyls. "Christmas Joy old lady!"

"I know..." came the pained reply.

"What? I refuse to be stereotyped!"

"Says the one with a phantom pregnancy and flabby arms."

"My arms aren't flabby!"

"You said that! Right after you bitched about your hat-hair!"

... Enough about my woes with image. Back to you:

Don't be me!

Male, female, neither, both- don't spend your precious youth and subsequently the rest of your life seeking visual satisfaction in another... or visual perfection in yourselves. Your eyes are not 'judges'; there wasn't a vote held in your tiny brain before you were born with the vote going to the eyes as deciders because... "The person I'm with, out there, has to look good," or "I have to look good so I can attract the best, out there."

Who fucking cares about your image?

Seriously. Give me one example where the outer packaging of ANYTHING resembled the product within. Go on! The McDonald's burger in your hand- (the example I mentioned with Dylan above) does that limp thing resemble at all the fluffy, yet crisp and dewy photo of the Big Mac at the order point? Nope... But. You chomp on it and relish it anyway because... because it tastes so damn good! Sure, the picture looks appealing but again... it's the product; what is inside, which matters more than the image. Doesn't it? Think: Do you actually even 'see' that perfect image anymore?

(Plus you can't exactly 'eat' the packaging.)

What?

What I mean is... the outer layer contains little but a promise; whatever it is; it's the product within that we tear it apart to reach for. (Unless we're toddlers or kittens!) An image is an image- be it a touched-up pic in a magazine, a Youtuber with millions of subscribers; a movie star; a stupendously rich rapper. They are all two-dimensional manufactured beings- even their dialogue is written for them when they speak publicly. Image, is, after all, everything... to the Corporations who invest zillions in these celebrities so that they, in turn, can fill the corporate coffers with the best possible ROI. (Return On Investment.)

Why then, do we impose such importance to our (and others') outer packaging when we know this is just a short-lived, soon-to- be-disposed-of packaging? However we/they come wrapped, the delight will always, always be in the discovery of what lays within. (Or the disappointment... yeah, mostly the disappointment... Because we are suckers. We bought the image. And then we realised we couldn't do anything with it since it was fake. So we bought another one... same deal. Same with the next.)

But wait a minute! If SHE starved herself and took risque photos and became an internet sensation and a supermodel... and I'm doing the same thing, copying her, and only getting creeps and stalkers... WTH? If HE dresses a particular way and speaks in a particular manner and has this 'bad boy' image going in that channel and became rich and famous and has babes draped all over him... and I do exactly the same, copying him... and now all I have is a juvenile record... WTH?

Do you get it?

I got some flattering looks my way; walking the beach with the boys. Men (some with partners along) openly assessed me: Calculated age, (mine and including the ages of my children as a measure) the difference, (their age) and pondered for a brief moment on the possibility: Did I look good enough? How did I compare to others? To the one... they walked with? Some smiled. One winked. (He was European, I made allowances.)

What did I see?

A parade of middle-aged men, some alone, some attached. I saw NO difference to any of them- in fact (I must confess here) my eyes strayed to the ones who didn't look my way. I think I admired them. Or maybe loved every single one of them for not noticing me! Because they looked for other things. They didn't give a fuck about assessing my outer suitability.

Do you get it?

Tell me you get it!

Before piling on the make-up including the new craze of white eye-liner SHE started... before you wear those ridiculous pants with the crotch so low it chafes your knees and that silly hairstyle requiring constant flicking HE wore at his most recent outing... before you look at a girl and dismiss her because of this or that which doesn't 'fit' your image of a girlfriend... before you look at a boy and dismiss him because he doesn't 'fit' your image of a boyfriend... before you stare into the mirror and groan, and want to scream at the unfairness life dealt you- because you look so damn ugly through your eyes compared to those perfect images out there...

... Think of what treasure you hide within. What others might, in turn, hide within. Open the package before passing it on as an unwanted gift! So what if it's a bloody third toaster and the other two look better- one day, you're gonna wish you'd kept it, trust me because chances are, it would have been the most reliable and longer-lasting one. So what if you 'look' like the third toaster and you are passed on for better-looking models? One day- someone will reach for you because... they will have learned to look past the outer, perfect-but-useless 'packaging' and reached instead for what is within.

Corporations intent on taking your money will always give you a new ideal, a new look, a new fad, an improved, better product. Think of the iPhone. You have to consume each new one because- well because it's better looking and has better features than the last!  (Never mind that the price keeps going up and up... beauty and enhanced features deserve it, right? Till you smash that screen or wreck the touchpad. Till you curse. And remember the old Nokias you could toss off a balcony and then pick up and resume the conversation because they were indestructible. But still... ugly as all hell- compared to today's sleek designs.) So off you go, buying a new one.

Then think of those of your generation who have 'made it'. Mad1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111e (sorry, Kitty stepped on the keyboard to remind me it was 3-hour feeding time and the kittens were stirring, lol) what? A shitload of money? A name? A huge fan-base? A trend? An icon? What exactly have they achieved?

And what makes them better than you? The make-up? The clothes? The 'tude? The image? For fuck's sake! That's their job! That's what they get paid for! To suck your money!

It has been a frustrating, oft-painful lesson for ME to learn, and one that I have still to fully own: "Fuck what the ideal is presented as outwardly, I ain't wasting my time, with the goalposts constantly shifting, trying to become IT! Nor am I seeking IT! Who cares?"

Look within. Look for the beauty of the mind and the goodness of the heart. Look for shared laughter and shared tears. Look for easy companionship- without the presence of pretence. Look for simplicity- there are enough complications within the rest of your living. Look for self-care and self-respect and the ability to dream... above all, look with clarity. See past the packaging and assess what lies beneath. You may well hit the rarely-before-hit bonus: where the outer package is EXACTLY as the product within it. Good for you!

But if you don't... take a bite first, before you turn your nose up and look past it searching for the perfect one. You might find it delicious- on the inside.

Look past the two-dimensional image created to take your money in return for some imagined 'fame and fortune' possibility if you, too, adopt this new offering presented as the ideal.

Anything you do to you (or borrow from others you hold as 'icons') to be 'noticed' or to 'fit an ideal'... or expect others to do for you to 'notice' them or 'fit your ideal'... it detracts from who you are. You are not HER! You are not HIM! And they certainly aren't you. You can aspire to make your outer package as visually appealing as you can- but you know what? Cosmetic or aesthetic changes are only skin-deep. There are other, different 'things' often bubbling below the perfectly presented (meticulously copied) surface. Aren't there?

Screw the Corporations and their greed. Ignore their insistence that you be this or that or expect this or that- to get your perfect match: your soulmate; your ideal image.

You may, in fact, know them already- only, you've swept past them, (whether out there or in the mirror) your eyes falling on the next hot thing. The next must have, must be, must want.

... Till you get to my age.  And see yourself for the sucker you still are. And bemoan the loss of time devoted to what others thought when, in fact, nobody gave a fuck! Except for the Corporations. And... you.

Next time you look in the mirror and bitch over this and that (appearance); next time you sweep past a person and dismiss them because of this and that (appearance)... maybe pause for a moment and repeat Dylan's words?

"Who cares?"