Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt. Not sure how to participate?
I was never much good at leaping – no, make that any good at leaping – so I can’t blame my current lack of inner spring on old age. Just naturally born to be earthbound, I guess. I was no good at running, either. Or hitting balls or turning handsprings or any of those things requiring physical competence. I’m a reasonable swimmer, and who knows how good I might have been if my excess childhood avoirdupois hadn’t kept me out of any water within cooee of skinny peers, but that’s not exactly leaping.
What I want to know, though, is why running, jumping, leaping – in fact any display of physical prowess particularly if it involves a ball, sends people into a frenzy of excitement and wild jubilation involving public celebrations up to and including tickertape parades, while cerebral or cultural success of similar magnitude passes entirely unnoticed. Doesn’t seem fair, really. Particularly when schools give up awarding academic prizes to avoid inferiority complexes in less intellectual students, but don’t extend the same compassion to klutzes at sports carnivals.
I am also jaw-crackingly bored with the perfect physiques, flawless skin and glorious hair that are prerequisites for modern heroes and heroines, fictional or flesh (but not much) and blood. Never mind whether they’re thick as two short planks or raving nutbags, as long as they’ve got it physically right, they’re IN. Even Bill Gates doesn’t attract the same fan base as – say – hunky ball players. Or Kim Kardashian. Which says a lot about modern priorities.
And while I’m on a roll, I may as well put in my tuppenceworth about ‘beauty’ products, which are the biggest con since snake oil. The big difference is that modern companies have more sophisticated marketing tools than snake-oil salesmen, so they can squeeze the public harder, with the result that the money the western world spends on these magical products per annum would probably supply Africa with food and water in perpetuity. I have wrinkles – and please note that this observation means I have eyes in my head not an obsession with the skin on my face. So I’ve got wrinkles, OK, and nothing on this earth will ever persuade me that spending half my weekly pension on a jar of anti-wrinkle cream will make a blind bit of difference to my wrinkles – except perhaps increase them as my face gets thinner because I’ve spent the food money on a jar of useless goo.
But hey, that’s just me. And I’m sure any shrink worth his/her salt could find a direct correlation between my inability to leap and my scorn for anti-wrinkle cream. Doesn’t keep me awake at night.