Seattle Zack
Count each one
- Joined
- Aug 29, 2003
- Posts
- 1,128
Here's an article from the Pee-Eye that gave me a laugh. This kind of crap is a particularly easy sell in Seattle, with all the angst-ridden boomer millionaires and their disaffected bimbotox wives. Reminded me of a conversation I overheard at Starbucks between two leathery plastic surgery disasters, discussing their "life coaches" and "freeing your inner child" seminars.....
New Me Expo shows what's wrong with the old me
By D. PARVAZ
SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER REPORTER
The new me left the New Me Expo scared, seeking comfort from the old me.
I darted out of the Seattle Center's Exhibition Hall on Saturday afternoon and ran into the arms of my hairstylist at day's end, hoping a quick artificial fix would jolt me back to reality. But what went so wrong? Was it Jared Fogle, Subway's inspirational spokesman? Was it the Choice & Consequence tray of human lungs and brains showing me the future of my organs if I don't start to fly right? Perhaps it was as simple as realizing I'd have to plunk down $500 to laser my eyebrows into the perfect arch.
New. Me. Those two words sound nice, don't they? They carry a breathless promise of shiny newness. Fresh starts. Clear skies.
Indeed, we're a culture obsessed by building a new us, and we'll spend any amount of money to get there. We love makeovers of any kind. Career makeovers, wardrobe makeovers, apartment makeovers, surgical makeovers. We queer eye all the rough edges (some admittedly not a moment too soon) from our straight guys. Declutter? Deconstruct? Reconstruct? Whatever. If it needs a measuring tape and/or therapy, bring it on, baby. We're game -- to the tune of billions of dollars. A 2001 study on The Market for Self-Improvement Products & Services by Marketdata Enterprises indicated a self-improvement market worth $5.7 billion. The group estimated there would be a 9.1 percent growth in the market by 2005, bringing the value of the market to $7.78 billion.
The old me walked into the Exhibition Hall willing to scout around for a new me. I felt healthy and good about the world, with the remnants of my early-morning coffee pumping its way through my heart.
But all that goodness came to a screeching halt at my first stop -- a booth where naturopaths promised to diagnose my food allergies for $10.
I hold a cautious faith in naturopathic medicine, as I do with the Western variety, I suppose, but when I was told that I was allergic to corn, soybeans, all nuts and mushrooms right off the bat, my left brain went into overdrive. These allergies were determined by placing test tubes of said foods on my abdomen (over two layers of clothing) while testing my ability to resist pressure on my left leg. At times, I was told to push my index finger on my chest; at others, I was told to press my right index finger into my thumb. All the aforementioned foods are kryptonite to me. It's a wonder I've made it through a bag of corn chips without collapsing.
Within 10 minutes of arriving at the expo, the new me was bitter about being told she was allergic to these foods because maybe her adrenal glands weren't functioning right, or that her hormonal levels were off. And about that left ovary -- well, might want to get that checked. It's hard to deny that the old me was having all the fun, what with eating all the soy-nut butter she wanted and all. Never mind about the hormones, though, because I could buy progesterone two stalls down. Sigh.
I want to improve myself as much as the next person -- assuming the next person isn't filled with self-loathing -- but why did I feel as though I'm just a filthy sack of toxic waste around these folks? Like I ought to be composed of nothing but purified water, lavender oil and flaxseed (which must still be colonically irrigated out of my system thrice yearly -- just to be safe)?
Ah, because apparently, I am just a garbage bag of connective crap.
I learned that in order to leave the old me behind, I must rid myself of the Chernobyl within via body wraps (going for $746 per five treatments). They wrap you in bandages soaked in minerals and pop you in a plastic poncho. Then you have to remain active to get the circulation going by, say, jumping up and down on a trampoline or bumping up against a giant vibrator for an hour. Hmm. That seems like a lot of work. I briefly considered an Ayurvedic detoxification program when I was distracted by a booth featuring a weight loss life coach ($400 for the first nine sessions). Pricey. Then again, so are Botox and laser hair removal marketed nearby. Perhaps I should focus on other things, because (and this is a bit of good news) toxic bag of bones that I am, I still have a soul. And I dragged that soul from seminar to seminar -- I looked for my authentic self, searched for a way to forgive and introduced myself to self-hypnosis. I even tried to love the place I live with the help of feng shui (at $60 an hour).
The old me, oh, she mangled all the good energies in her life. Her chi was sluggish, her chakras were blocked. And she just didn't know herself. All day long I looked around me. Everyone was smiling, excited about seeing Jared hold up his old size 60 pants (he did not disappoint). They signed up for seminars promising financial independence, bought makeup made of minerals and diet bars while the new me stared wide-eyed at massive sea of newness and change being marketed to her. But the old me wasn't so bad. She put her arms around the new me and took her out for a drink and a haircut at the end of the day. Perhaps I sold the old me short.
New Me Expo shows what's wrong with the old me
By D. PARVAZ
SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER REPORTER
The new me left the New Me Expo scared, seeking comfort from the old me.
I darted out of the Seattle Center's Exhibition Hall on Saturday afternoon and ran into the arms of my hairstylist at day's end, hoping a quick artificial fix would jolt me back to reality. But what went so wrong? Was it Jared Fogle, Subway's inspirational spokesman? Was it the Choice & Consequence tray of human lungs and brains showing me the future of my organs if I don't start to fly right? Perhaps it was as simple as realizing I'd have to plunk down $500 to laser my eyebrows into the perfect arch.
New. Me. Those two words sound nice, don't they? They carry a breathless promise of shiny newness. Fresh starts. Clear skies.
Indeed, we're a culture obsessed by building a new us, and we'll spend any amount of money to get there. We love makeovers of any kind. Career makeovers, wardrobe makeovers, apartment makeovers, surgical makeovers. We queer eye all the rough edges (some admittedly not a moment too soon) from our straight guys. Declutter? Deconstruct? Reconstruct? Whatever. If it needs a measuring tape and/or therapy, bring it on, baby. We're game -- to the tune of billions of dollars. A 2001 study on The Market for Self-Improvement Products & Services by Marketdata Enterprises indicated a self-improvement market worth $5.7 billion. The group estimated there would be a 9.1 percent growth in the market by 2005, bringing the value of the market to $7.78 billion.
The old me walked into the Exhibition Hall willing to scout around for a new me. I felt healthy and good about the world, with the remnants of my early-morning coffee pumping its way through my heart.
But all that goodness came to a screeching halt at my first stop -- a booth where naturopaths promised to diagnose my food allergies for $10.
I hold a cautious faith in naturopathic medicine, as I do with the Western variety, I suppose, but when I was told that I was allergic to corn, soybeans, all nuts and mushrooms right off the bat, my left brain went into overdrive. These allergies were determined by placing test tubes of said foods on my abdomen (over two layers of clothing) while testing my ability to resist pressure on my left leg. At times, I was told to push my index finger on my chest; at others, I was told to press my right index finger into my thumb. All the aforementioned foods are kryptonite to me. It's a wonder I've made it through a bag of corn chips without collapsing.
Within 10 minutes of arriving at the expo, the new me was bitter about being told she was allergic to these foods because maybe her adrenal glands weren't functioning right, or that her hormonal levels were off. And about that left ovary -- well, might want to get that checked. It's hard to deny that the old me was having all the fun, what with eating all the soy-nut butter she wanted and all. Never mind about the hormones, though, because I could buy progesterone two stalls down. Sigh.
I want to improve myself as much as the next person -- assuming the next person isn't filled with self-loathing -- but why did I feel as though I'm just a filthy sack of toxic waste around these folks? Like I ought to be composed of nothing but purified water, lavender oil and flaxseed (which must still be colonically irrigated out of my system thrice yearly -- just to be safe)?
Ah, because apparently, I am just a garbage bag of connective crap.
I learned that in order to leave the old me behind, I must rid myself of the Chernobyl within via body wraps (going for $746 per five treatments). They wrap you in bandages soaked in minerals and pop you in a plastic poncho. Then you have to remain active to get the circulation going by, say, jumping up and down on a trampoline or bumping up against a giant vibrator for an hour. Hmm. That seems like a lot of work. I briefly considered an Ayurvedic detoxification program when I was distracted by a booth featuring a weight loss life coach ($400 for the first nine sessions). Pricey. Then again, so are Botox and laser hair removal marketed nearby. Perhaps I should focus on other things, because (and this is a bit of good news) toxic bag of bones that I am, I still have a soul. And I dragged that soul from seminar to seminar -- I looked for my authentic self, searched for a way to forgive and introduced myself to self-hypnosis. I even tried to love the place I live with the help of feng shui (at $60 an hour).
The old me, oh, she mangled all the good energies in her life. Her chi was sluggish, her chakras were blocked. And she just didn't know herself. All day long I looked around me. Everyone was smiling, excited about seeing Jared hold up his old size 60 pants (he did not disappoint). They signed up for seminars promising financial independence, bought makeup made of minerals and diet bars while the new me stared wide-eyed at massive sea of newness and change being marketed to her. But the old me wasn't so bad. She put her arms around the new me and took her out for a drink and a haircut at the end of the day. Perhaps I sold the old me short.
