To be real

So, last week Kim Kardashian photoed and posted her rock-taped tits on instagram.

She shared this as a way of telling her fans (and innocent bystanders like me) how much work she has to do to prepare her voluptuousness to be – well – voluptuous on the red carpet.

I came about this life changing fact on Thursday morning when I started my car. The radio dial was set to the Fox. Please – don’t judge me. My smalls had been in the car the night before and have a thing for cheesy pop. As I have a thing for arriving at intended destinations without one of my small loves inflicting serious bodily harm on another, I have succumbed to their crap taste and silently suffer the Justin Beiber mega-mix which is the said stations repeated playlist.

My usual drill when I get into my blue beast of a family car is to de-family it and re-me it. Which means flick the dial from childhood cheese to the real world of music. That being the R’s or PB’s.

If it’s between 1 and 3pm on a weekday, I flick it to Clare.

But hearing of Kim’s taped-tits at 7:45 am was radio pop culture at it’s finest hour. And I felt myself, albeit unwillingly, needing to listen to where Kim’s rock tape extravaganza fact would take me.

So what’s rock tape I hear you say? Yes, it’s one of the tools I have in my little bag of physiotherapy tricks to treat punters who need some help to kinestheticly stabilise a joint. Footy players wear it on their shoulders. Netballers wrap it around their knees. Rock tape facilitates movement of the body with corrected biomechanical intelligence. The word ‘kinesthetic’ actually comes from the greek word meaning “to move.”

However, “to move” is something Kim Kardashian probably did not want her taped-tits to do.

The breakfast DJ put the call out to the listening punters. A call out to ring in. To share how much work one does to prepare oneself for the red carpet. And the call board lit up. All from the station’s target audience, that being young women. And as each woman started sharing their styling secrets, I felt my self kinda sinking in my seat.

One spoke of the 40 minute daily ritual required for false lashes as she simply shouldn’t leave the house without doe blink-able eyes. My eyeballs suddenly felt a little bit naked wearing nothing but a smear of coconut oil across my lids. Another caller spoke of the maintenance required for hair extensions. This being weekly visits to her hairdresser for washing and styling. Because if she were to try this at home herself, she would pull a thousand dollars worth of someone else’s hair out of her head. I felt a little sick inside. My hair currently slicked straight flat due to the last night’s KP24 family nit treatment…..
Before I could kill myself for clearly not spending enough time preening myself to get out the door, or drive up their arse of the person in front with my frustration of all the women who do – this thing called a Fox traffic update came on the radio. It was enough of a circuit breaker to make me realise what I had been seduced to listening to and feel into what I was reacting to,
so I turned the stupid station off.

Think lateral side opener, seated twists and eye palming.

The yoga teachings talk of a concept called ‘avidhya’. This translates as “incorrect comprehension” or false perception. That is, we believe things to be real when they are are not. We get ourselves into sticky situations if we perceive something to be true when it’s actually our mind’s projection based on unconscious habits, insidious programming or past prejudice. This feeds into a space of ignorance and of misunderstanding of the true nature of reality. It creates within us a sense of separateness, or ego. We start comparing ourselves to those around us. Or labelling ourselves to give ourselves transient identities. Like, I am a hair colour. Or, I am a clothes size. Or, I have 61.1 million instagram followers and have fabulous gravity-defying tits.
Ultimately, regardless of your label of choice, eventually it’s going to make you feel incomplete.

From such a very young age, we are saturated with visual images through our mainstream and now personal social media. We are continually projected the painted perfect woman. With her rock-taped breasts and doe blinking eyes, she carries around a lush head of hair that’s possibly not even hers. The barbies that I played with as a child are now in my daughters’ room. These dolls are so anatomically incorrect that if built to adult scale, they would never have been able to walk.

No matter how much rock tape a stylist had strapped around their perfect plastic arse.

I watched “Jurrasic World” with my small loves last night. I’m still not sure how an M rated movie came into our home. The word “shit” shocked my smalls twice when said in the first 20 minutes. There was a scene when the prehistoric park owning billionaire, who can’t really fly a helicopter, was flying a helicopter. His passengers kept telling him to “be careful”, “slow down” and to “watch his controls”. Eventually, he turned to his nay-sayers and said –

“The key to a happy life is to accept that you are never actually in control.”

Despite how much rocktape you plaster across your tits.

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