“The sports car song! This is what I would walk to.”
My brain becomes a cartoon spiral. Concentric circles swirl around my head as I perform a double take, a triple take, a complete neurological reboot.
“You would want to walk this show??”
“Jesus, I’m talking to the Wokler. Obviously, I wouldn’t but I like this song.”
So there it is. I’ve raised a feminist who can identify the patriarchal machinery of the beauty industrial complex, dismantle its marketing strategy, and simultaneously form opinions about her runway soundtrack.
Then:
“Oh damn, they’re twerking.” My daughter.
“Oh snap, they’re backing it up!” My son.
Welp.
“I’m going to go do my homework.” Both of them, pretty much in unison.
And just like that, the family summit is over. Feminism has been considered. The patriarchy remains intact. The math homework, for now, has a fighting chance.
It’s selling the same fantasy, repackaged as progress.
