The Statistics of Being A Girl: Redefining What’s Vital in 2018.
Thirty two - twenty four - thirty three.
Would these vital statistic numbers add up to you being a girl, and maybe soon-to-be woman? It’s like someone’s very private vault code.
Sometimes we take things like data out of proportion and magnify statistics out of spiral to suit our needs. I usually lie about age - and taken into my industry application of writing aboit fashion / brands, i sometimes dwell on the small things that might matter : weight, calories, hair porosity, teeth white count, thread count for sheets, length of nails, height per density, and the things we subject our secretly keen eyes on.
Balancing our own tires, we conduct ourselves according to our own measure. Or at least we should.
Listening to societal dictates sometimes leave you badly influenced - and never leave you at peace with yourself - and you develop an inner critic that will not remotely commence to measure your real self.
When we stare at ourselves in that mirror, we see what we sometimes are told: your hair is hard to comb down, your nose is like a tomato, your hands are yoo stubby thick and too coarse, wait, did you get fat again?
It’s not just TV or the resident office critic that brings us our(bad)selves to extreme attention, and dare i say bad light. We tend towards the corrupted ideals that have been pased down becauee isn’t that what socials brong us - a silent conformity to affix our acceptability.
From a very young age, you are raised, programmed, cajoled to perform and manoeuvred to become the ‘best’. The norm is always the above average, no-to-mediocrity standards that have been set before you. Who sets these? Society. Schools. Via a standard of social. What the curve wants, sets up and holds loyally to a markedly brilliant stance of what they think perfection looks like. That’s the target.
Our job is to hit that. Hard.
Today, a diverse programming allows internationally divergent communities to chime in the upgrading / rearing of the children who are of mobile-upward parents, the ones who were meant to achieve higher than the generation before them (if your life becomes better than your parents, you are golden), and pass it down.
So the question remains : what is worth the eyebags night after night? Is it a sackful of gold or the heavy hitting column in the New York Times or the goldplated gold watch of loyalty to your accounting role, or nameplate that accords you an only-girl position in an all-male team?
(Congratulations).
Or being a good person, yearly topping the upstanding citizenry list, or coughing up your 15-40% tax to live in your ideal city/ state/ country? Do you comparatively hold up your end of the proverbial economy - even as you flit ever so slightly from country to country, organisation to organisation, abiding by the constant pressure that addresses rent, but never a real nagging need for growth inside you. Are you continuously hankering for a life in probably what a soul-less country may offer as an equivalence of hours spent in commercial exercise of choice-and-the-millisecond-conscience-wringing on which products bring commercialist peace on earth.
Probably not.
Im starting with my head, the measure to which will not suffice your tape measure.
And that will be an infinite gesturebti guarantee its immeasurable pricelessness that should (as enabled, ideally), expand exponentially through time.
Thirty cm • Twenty-eight ” • Infinity • Stet