I have a confession. I’m Britney’s Bitch. I’m one of those mindless, clothingless women who jump up and down in clubs to some sugary, pre-processed bite of Britney’s auto-tuned sighing and writhing. Basically I have no music taste. At all.
I’m very jealous of people who do have an ear for music. Especially if they can explain to me why they like a song without using the word “fusion” or “post-punk-neo-wave-rave-house-Crayola-caffeine-electro.” I admire people who are passionate and knowledgeable on a subject; music is no exception to that. Plus if they’re really passionate their eyes will sparkle and they’ll start waving their hands excitedly like they’ve seen an elephant playing the Sax. Which is fun to watch.
So I’m very jealous of genuine musos. What I’m not jealous of is people who love music, but who’s first (and often subsequently last) comment to me is “what do you listen to?” Because when I say Pussycat Dolls, and they stare at me like I said I like to pierce my underarms, they’re just being pretentious.
Yes, the lyrics of “I know you want me, I know you do” are perhaps light on literary merit, but the PCD made millions and millions. And the ability to turn a profit is a criteria we generally judge success on. So can’t we say that they’re a successful band? It’s like people who make their money in shipping; it’s not fascinating but we still revere them as businessmen. Can’t I admire them for their ability to turn scant talent, and scanter clothing into a multi million empire?
Admittedly that’s not why I like them, I genuinely just like dancing and if it’s loud, bouncy and not trying to analyse the pain of modern capitalist youth, I’m down. And sometimes, liking things which are as devoid of artistic integrity as a painting by numbers Mona Lisa, are just fun.
Dear ‘Eye Liner and iphone Hipster’ who cut in front of me,
Your tee shirt is too small. It does not say ‘indie’ – it says ‘I-don’t-know-when-to-use-hot-or- cold- wash.’ Maybe a little bourgeois skill wouldn’t go amiss….?
You’re ordering a fair trade coffee. Yes, I understand that you think you’re saving little African children, whose photos you collect on your wall like arty postcards. But you do realise that your pre-ripped jeans will have been produced by a little Chinese girl in a factory. The only difference is that it’s convenient to drink Fair Trade. It’s not convenient to stop wearing jeans.
May I also add, that by cutting in front of me, I am going to talk very loudly about the artistic brilliance of Britney. Then I’ll wait until you start to shudder convulsively before saying how I feel the lyrics of Katy Perry speak to me on an emotional level.
And , my dear hip one, you may have cut in the line, but I am laughing last. Because I’m a boring, middle class girl who paid attention in Chinese class, instead of being ‘hip’ and arranging my toenail clippings into a sculpture.
You think that the tattoo of a Chinese character on your arm is deep and ethnic. You probably think it says something profound like Love or Honour.
I don’t know why everyone wants to be young. I’m at the gym, and it’s the first time in my life I fully appreciate old people.
The gym itself is ok. Considering my chronic unfitness, i’m actually enjoying myself. I like buildings that embrace the “I can’t be bothered finishing this so I’ll just paint it grey, leave some strange corners and call it minimalist” look. I like the smell of panic as women try to out do each other on the treadmill. I like the self congratulating grunts of pain the guys make when they lift heavy shit up and down. Reassurance of their own success in life that they can shift 50 kgs of metal 30 cm. I like the way they try to fill it with things that stop you from hearing your body is screaming “stop! stop! I’ll never have a cronut again, just STOP!”
But one thing I hate is the gym junkies.
Why? I’m not jealous of them. Partly because they probably couldn’t spell the word jealous. Not because they bully me. They don’t talk to me. I don’t speak cross-trainer. So what is is that pisses me off?
They stare at how much I sweat. And yes, I do look like a blue fin tuna swimming in a river when I run. I also go deathly white with red flushes which makes me look like a radish in a food blender. And i’m ok with this. But gym junkies aren’t. They look at me, they look at the puddle i’m dripping into and they sniff and toss their hair. Their young, tanned, toned bodies are teflon coated. They don’t sweat. Sweating is for mortals.
But it’s ok. Because I have found the solution. This is why I like old people. When I train with them, they’re just nice, slightly crumpled and fond of bright lycra. They saw Vietnam, the great depression and cheese in a can. You think your sweat freaks them out?
I think as you get older you just give less of shit about what people think. And I just love their acceptance. Either that or they’re blind.