Madonnas in the Void

Every woman wants a husband. Ideally a husband that travels. And eats with his mouth closed. Some women don’t realise this. They think the idea of the nuclear family is heteronormative social programming; their dream is to be alone at fifty, sitting on their sofa-for-one (our chair), screaming with excitement at the women’s football they learned to like because they’re not socially conditioned. ‘But what if you want a dress?’ I say to young women who refuse to know what a vagina is, when moments ago they lapped up its Monologues, ‘what if you want a dress, and it comes with a husband? Make sure he doesn’t talk with his mouth full.’

In the space between the cold sweat and the hot flush, the bum bag and the shell suit, women used to recognise the trends they embraced. They chanted all they really, really wanted was a zig a zig ah, with the same enthusiasm the susceptible sing “Lionesses Forever, side by side wherever” but they couldn’t share their cognitive lapses publicly. They buried them like any other wardrobe fail. Social media has changed this. As I watched a table of women set up a light for their ‘spontaneous’ selfies at a gig on Saturday, I understood we’re in a period of overcommitment that’s as difficult to lean back from as the neck tattoo. Ours is an era of collagen pumped mouths spewing crap, and we don’t seem to care, as long as we can just like, you know, like, keep on, like looking at ourselves while we like, talk.

To be fair, I’m not even thick, and I know what I say is less important to me than how I look when I’m saying it. I once walked past a mirror display, and was so keen to see myself, I headbutted the shop window. On the plus side I understand this isn’t a win. The social(media)ites do not.

Instagram is a data harvest. It works. I can predict 90% of women’s reactions to any subject once I’ve established whether they think they look better laughing or pouting. The soft spot in the Venn diagram of course is surprise, an expression that suits everyone. It’s probably why the beautiful game is catching on as women can look attractive while they react to what’s not happening. 

Like the nymph Echo we seem cursed to repeat the last words spoken to us, in this case, “Lionesses forever, never to surrender”. The only difference is we’ve cut out the (middle) man. Instead of suffering to see Narcissus fall in love with himself and stare at his reflection till death, we must endure the victory of watching our own.