Emotional Response

So I bought some new deodorant. It wasn’t until I got home that I noticed the little sticker on the cap that read, “Extra Responsive in Emotional Moments.” After several days of wear I was about to throw it out because the constant smell of Powder Fresh armpits was making me nauseous. I realized that even the slightest emotional reaction caused it to activate and flood my nostrils with a scent strong enough to taste. It felt like my deodorant was antagonizing me—with every whiff I heard it say, “Stop being such an emotional woman!” I’m not a sweaty person; however, I am a passionate (“emotional,” whatever…) person, which apparently means I need a deodorant that will turn on whenever I have a feeling that’s slightly complicated.

Why do I need a deodorant that responds to my emotions in the first place? Emotions don’t make me sweat, sitting in a 100-degree conference room to watch a PowerPoint about consumer behavior makes me sweat, attempting to run a mile with my spastic dog makes me sweat, trying on clothes at Forever 21 makes me sweat. I’m sure there’s some kind of scientific validity behind creating emotionally responsive deodorant, but when it’s positioned next to the men’s deodorant, which all have stickers on the cap that say, “Protects Men Who Take Risks,” I have to stop, throw my breasts over my shoulder and put up my feminist fighting fists. Being a woman doesn’t make me emotional. Being a person who comes from a long line of emotional people and lives a busy, sort of stressful life makes me an emotional person. But men don’t need deodorant that responds to their emotions because the only thing that makes them sweat is heavy-lifting and all the manly activities they engage in, apparently. To suggest that women are the only ones who need protection from the physical reaction her body has to emotions is to suggest that we are the only ones who feel, and if we are the only ones who feel then why in the hell haven’t we conquered the world and made men obsolete?

Fine, I'll admit that sometimes I overreact in situations and that makes me seem “emotional,” I guess. But it’s usually after someone says one of my three crazy triggers:

1. “Stop overreacting!”
2. “Calm down!”
3. “Relax!”

Now my deodorant has become my fourth crazy trigger because every time I get another heavy whiff of Powder Fresh armpits, I get defensive and emotional over the fact that it thinks I’m being emotional. I feel like screaming, “You don’t know me! You don’t know how I feel! You’re just another thing I do to disguise my real smell that maybe also gives me cancer later in life! So stop pretending to be smart because you’re NOT!”

And after typing that, all I can smell is Powder Fresh armpits...again.

"Booty Pop"

New inventions are happening everyday. This is something I benefited from until I woke up old one day. Now, every new invention feels like another thing to learn, another thing to spend money on and another thing that’s just a few years too late. Once you graduate from the limelight of the 18- to 24-year-old demographic and you’re no longer the apple of every retailer’s eye, you fall into the grey, ambivalent area of 25- to 34-year-olds and new products don’t really appeal to anything other than your bitterness. So when I came across Booty Pop, I assumed my reaction was like many other 25- to 34-year-olds: Seriously? WTF!



According to the commercial, Booty Pop will give you a “sexier, more desirable booty instantly,” and it’s just like a “padded bra for your butt!” Every claim made my heart sink deeper into my protruding gut. As a curvy female who is proud to have something to shake, even if it is her upper arm, I feel conflicted. Is this a sign that society has finally become accepting of women with curves, with imitation (or simulation) being the most sincere form of flattery? Or is this just another way for skinny girls to get ahead, by perpetuating an unrealistic body type? I settled on the latter because in a society where Kim Kardashian can be famous for more than 15 minutes because she has an ass big enough to have its own zip code, Booty Pop is anything butt a step in the right direction for women and body image.

As the commercial says, “Booty Pop turns a droopy derriere into a youthful looking, head turning, bootylicious booty,” it cuts to scenes of men checking out women’s asses in inappropriate settings because, how else would you know you look hot? No one seems to care about how all these newly bootyfied women are going to be wearing dirty underwear all the time, because, you know, cleanliness is a virtue second only to hotness.

At this point in my life, I see a commercial for something like Booty Pop and the 18- to 24-year-old inside of me giggles while the 25- to 34-year-old inside of me rolls her eyes, swallows a regurgitation of feminist theory, and bitterly reflects on the past. I have spent the last decade overeating in hopes of one day having an ass like JLo, so you can imagine my disappointment when – after nine years of hard work, dedication and a strict diet of doughnuts, McDonald’s, beer and cheese cubes – someone decides to go and invent padded underwear.

So, you know what Booty Pop? You owe me 20 pounds of cellulite.

(And I don't think it's a coincidence that "Booty Pop" is one dangerous typo away from being "Booty Poop.")