The sweet seduction of late night infomercials
JAKARTA (JP): As the night creeps into early morning but the brain obstinately refuses to shut down, I often while away the hours with Kimiko and Lisa.
You know who. You must have seen them on their infomercials. Kimiko, the one with the formidable decolletage, may not, for all I know, be able to chew gum and think at the same time. But she deserves a medal of honor for her ability to spout off a glowing marketing spiel at a mile a minute and keep up an unrelenting pace on her exercise machine.
A marvel, our Kimiko, reiterated by the fact that she never breaks a sweat, nor says goodbye to her toothy smile. As she races along to some unseen destination on her stationary machine, all she does is glow.
Lisa and I go way back. When I was still in high school, she starred in a popular TV comedy in the U.S. about four students at a girls boarding school. As I remember, she was supposed to be the WASPY, snotty heiress with a cache of airs and graces. But, as the series went on, so did the pounds, and it seemed she was vying instead for the thankless role of pudgy shoulder-to-lean-on for the other characters.
Which is the reason why Lisa, albeit far, far away on some Hollywood soundstage, is staring imploringly into my Jakarta bedroom. She dolefully recounts her lifelong battle of the bulge, compounded by having two children, but perks up to testify how an "amazing" exercise machine finally put an end to all that heartache.
"If I can do it, anyone can," she intones reassuringly. And as I watch her go through her emotional and physical paces, I feel that limpid-eyed Lisa is talking directly at me, a good 10 kgs above my college weight of seven years ago.
A couple of months ago, I would have preferred to scrub the bathroom floor rather than endure the banality of an infomercial. Their sole point of interest was to become reacquainted with some faded stars of yesteryear who, from what I guessed was hunger, were suddenly plugging products like frenzied cheerleaders of the airwaves.
But now, with airtime and programming getting the big chop, these infomercials stand like beacons of light as I channel surf through the still ocean of blue sign-off messages.
They offer something to put paid to whatever Achilles' heel may hobble you. Go on, give yourself a makeover. Get your body buffed to perfection with assorted exercise machines, put an end to bad hair days with an "amazing" brush, have your pearly whites gleaming like never before with a dental whitener and finish it all off with a steadfast lipstick which will adapt to the subtleties of your complexion.
For the domestically minded, there are gadgets and gizmos to take all the drudgery out of daily chores. Think of the greatest inventions of this past century, and the list would probably include penicillin, TV and the cell phone. But the humble mop?
Well, according to one infomercial, there is this extraordinary mop with amazing (that word again) abilities to clean up everything and anything. From the infomercial's inflated claims, one would think the mop could have taken care of the Exxon Valdez spill in an afternoon.
Yet, the little cynical voice inside of me, the one screaming "there's a sucker born every minute", has been quieted. These infomercials go for the hard sell, but they also shrewdly tug at the heart strings. They pry open the hidden fears within ourselves that we have let ourselves run to see, but soothe our wounded egos by offering hope that we can restore the balance of nature.
But when Kimiko or Lisa throw down the gauntlet and ask "what are you waiting for?", I stifle the urge to reach for the phone. For one, I don't have the rupiah to spare. But, more importantly, I know that while the spirit is willing, the flesh is decidedly weak.
A friend, headed to live in the sunnier climes of Bali a month ago, willed me her stationary bike. For the first couple of days, I used it religiously, praying for the elusive deliverance of physical fitness.
Unfortunately, even the best intentions can run asunder. As I sleepily watch ebullient Kimiko pushing herself to the limit on the small screen, that stationary bike has assumed a new purpose as a convenient clothes rack.
-- Bruce Emond