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By Simon Wallace
Your friends at home are having kids. Your friends in Taiwan are getting laid. Your friends at home espouse the "it's not until you have one" mantra through geeky smiles that were, until recently, comedic to the very friend that stands before you, bleary-eyed and smelling of vomit, seemingly oblivious to your lonely irony.
Your friends in Taiwan are also sporting bloodshot eyes and a spew-stained sweater. But this is the stuff of over-partying and lack of sleep, indicative of time spent shagging as many like-minded waiguoren as they can. Their smiles are equally uncontrollable.
The mates back home drain your very sanity with talk of vaccinations and college funds for their diaper-clad noise machine, while the Taiwan crew periodically wonder aloud why they just spent $3000NT on who knows what, pashed another mate's girl and, at 28, are forced to feign coolness on a scooter because they can't afford anything else.
Neither option is a perfect choice and the years stack up like regrettable memories. Then it hits you, a smack in the face like a jilted lover's palm. You want both. It's a conundrum of the highest order.
You want to party and shag your way around the world; snort, swallow and drink exotic substances, but return to your house full of useful stuff and a family that can make you grin like an idiot over regurgitation. The quarter-life crisis any self-respecting, burbs-fearing traveler has - the Booty vs. the Booties. So let's step back, strike a relaxed pose and pretend we're objective enough to examine our own behavior, to be the very picture of a modern pseudo-shrink and analyze our reasons. Meaning, like all badly adjusted humans, lets find someone to blame.
It's Santa's fault. Fuck it, the bubble must burst.
If the great big goodwill-spreading bastard hadn't hoodwinked us as kids we'd be able to think for ourselves. He loves a party, that man. Even ignoring speculation that only a man with his hands (on a huge stash of 'A' grade chemicals), could stay awake all night laughing like a madman, and convince some ice-sucking quadrupeds they can fly, might raise the cash to buy or make enough presents for every Christian God-fearing kid in the world and then take the better part of a year to come down. He's still a cagey bastard.
Our first hero, the man we all want to see, has a beer gut the size of Greenland and by far the coolest job in the world. He brings what we want and despite the hype about his omniscience, he obviously never told our parents about the time I killed the neighbor's cat with aspirin and then backed over it to cover my tracks. What's more, he brought a bike that year. He was cool. We trusted him. He instilled in us the belief that with confidence, tricks and enough begging, we can get what we want and herein lies the first evil. Who doesn't want Booty? But most of all, he brought us the joy of the 'unwrap,' that pre-present excitement and anticipation: the expectation that this is exactly what you asked for, even though it probably isn't. Sure, when you're six years old you're not wishing for some naked booty and a no-strings-attached, lifetime-supply of what's under that wrapping. But the seed is planted and hence the forest grows.
Then there's Fred, that pseudo-uncle who's laughing hardest in all your parents' pre-child photos and is generally revered as the great adventurer. He hasn't been to Christmas since about the same time you realized it's totally ridiculous to leave beer and what looked like parsley out for Santa and his coke-inspired flying deer. Fred's getting on, craziness sticks to him like scotch-tape on a box of Legos and it seems the greatest difference between him and the sane adults you know is a lack of kids.
Next, and in danger of losing the last two women still reading, let's take a swipe at feminist equality.
I love it. Bring on equal pay and respected common sense. Be done with old-boys' networks and every male-dominated democratic house of parliament in the world (take a bow NZ, or a curtsy if you choose). In the interests of fairness, however, I'd like to hold onto blonde jokes, a monopoly on trips to the hardware store, the right to refuse trips to any shop that stocks hair clips plus the right to say 'cute' or 'curtsy' without it being a mere throwback to our patriarchal society. But, and in danger of losing the two guys still reading, take back insanely sexy pop culture.
The film clips to shite songs inexplicably void of meaning that still make us stop in the streets and stick our hands in our pockets. Tight shirts, short skirts, panty lines, no panty lines, black lace stockings, beach volleyball, Kylie's arse, Salma Hayek's ass, pole-dancing exercise kits, take it all back!
Well, maybe keep the pole kit, and the skirts, and it'd be a pity to ruin the chances of our lovely beach volleyballers, but reserve some for the right place and time. Let us suffer our obscene sex drives in private and be able to string together three-minute blocks of continuous thought on our way to the shop and back. Equanimity and equality are alliterative for a good reason. Yeah, yeah, girls want booty too and should be as beautiful as they can be, but beauty is in the form, not the flesh.
Claiming that wearing virtually bugger-all is a testament to confidence is a mixed message. The predatory men see an easy target; Buddha-knows what young girls think. It's degrading to women's intelligence, insulting to our mothers who fought the fight and, most importantly, omnipotent against my will to settle down. Besides, if it's booty you're after, ask and you will receive. But then, with maturity comes truth or at least the need to invent a good cover. The Booty/Booties conflict is but a natural chrysalis from which you'll become the clearest lovingest parent and the most Booty-tanning beast that's ever been. You see how the sexiness is actually what inspires you and that the Santa myth is groovy because it was all about the family. At the thought of double-Booty joy springs into your heart like rose raindrops running down a velvet breast, a honey bath or sex with the stars. Life is saved.
So, patiently, we'll each return to the confusion. Maybe we'll even forgive Santa for instilling a strong respect for happiness at cost. Regardless of his habits he was a construct who really cared and valued kids. And no, not in that "I'm off to Thailand for the third time this month" way, but genuinely. He was only enjoying the honesty, the trust, the complete innocence and unselfish joy as a philanthropist. He wasn't after a client base at all. |
