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Women in tight white trousers, horse
riding, running along the beach in their bikinis, salsa-ing down the street,
leaping into the back of a convertible, even jumping out of a plane. All so
familiar a part of the lexicon of sanitary towel advertising, they became
clichés long ago.
In fact, these days they're a national joke. Even Chris Morris was moved to
spoof the genre on
The Day Today back in 1994, with an impersonation
of Kurt Cobain singing the lyrics to a fictitious TV campaign for a made-up
brand of sanitary products.
Containing lines like, “Once a month you become a slave to a tidal wave...”
Morris' Panty Smile song was refreshing in its honesty, a welcome
antidote to the unsettling word-play techniques deployed by advertising
companies.
What's more, the sight of grunge god Kurt Cobain with his greasy hair, bad
skin and baggy, smeggy clothing was a far more realistic depiction of the
menstrual experience. Ironically, he looked more like he was on the rag than
the women in the real adverts did. With their exotic landscapes and glossy,
polished perfection, the only thing ever remotely realistic about the latter
was the shrieking woman belting out the theme tune.
Nevertheless, these adverts achieved a cult status I tolerated with a wry
smile. Until, that was, a couple of years ago. No names will be mentioned
but there was one sanitary towel advert that almost had me throwing my
knickerbocker glory at the screen.
To the sound of Joan Baez's “Ain't going to let nobody turn me around” it
showed a sea of women oozing through the streets of a European city. Women
were abandoning their jobs and chores to join the crowds marching for
improved sanitary protection. It ended with the slogan “Vote for Change”.
This was the last straw. If this was supposed to be the voice of protest
then I wished to protest about this advert. Apparently we women need men to
deliver everything for us, even sanitary towels, for which we have to vote.
Have we not moved on since 1918? We can't sort it out for ourselves as we're
too busy vacuuming, gossiping on the phone, shopping for shoes or eating
cakes. The only job we can do is secretary, according to the ad. Yes, the
advert really was that patronising.
Apart from a chocolate cake oozing and glistening with gooey sauce - a
positively uterine signifier infinitely preferable to inoffensive blue dye -
it made the other adverts look Shakespearean in their sophistication. It was
almost as bad as that advert for a heartburn remedy where little firemen
squirt white liquid down the woman's throat. You didn't have to be an old
perv' to figure out what was going on there.
All adverts are ridiculous exaggerations to be approached with a healthy
scepticism, we know this. Yet we still take them seriously. There's nothing
wrong with women playing tennis, cycling, shopping or eating cakes, of
course, but it's hideous to suggest that they can only do these things if
they're wearing the right sanitary towel. Yet that's what the adverts do.
They maintain we have a choice, as long as it's their choice.
Adverts don't make us do anything, and yet clearly they work. How? The
propaganda they peddle weaves a web of doubt and fear, playing on our secret
weaknesses and insecurities, our desire to conform, not to lose face.
Language is manipulated subtly and cleverly to achieve particular effects.
Techniques used include alliteration, euphemism and heavy repetition. The
words “soft”, “thin”, “discreet”, “reliable”, “invisible” could almost be
describing the perfect woman.
Not just to the Victorians. Such pompous, patriarchal, primitive thinking is
being used to sell products to women here and now. Mostly it's stuff we
don't need and so a sense of fear is maintained by not mentioning the root
of it. It's covered up and couched in a lexicon of non-words and
meta-language designed to sound impressive and meaningful, but in fact means
nothing.
Prefixes and suffixes - “ultra”, “plus”, “mini”, “maxi” - are sprinkled
liberally and randomly like confetti, along with words like “secure” and
“confident” planting the subliminal message that we're the opposite. We're
told we should choose a towel with an “advanced micro-groove system” - which
sounds more like a state-of-the-art hi-fi (Wait! A sanitary towel with its
own music system? Now that I would be interested in. Has Apple patented the
iPod-sani yet? Coming to a store near you).
All of it is a smokescreen designed to detract attention from the real
source of fear, that of the vagina itself, perhaps one of man's most primal
fears - the vagina dentata. The implication is that our vaginas are dirty,
smelly and dangerous, that they need sanitising and sterilising, and that we
are outcasts, backward and unclean if we don't use the right products.
"Frightening females is fun," wrote Germaine Greer in her book The Change.
"Women are frightened by dire predictions if they let nature take its
course." She argues that scaring women is "big business and hugely
profitable." It is fear, she says, that "makes women comply with schemes and
policies that work against their interest".
I've always bled heavily. A lover at university was bemused by what he
called my “Kevlar knickers”: sometimes I'd use up to five, six sanitary
towels at once and I'd still flood. The war imagery was appropriate. A
bloody battle was being fought, one that I'd never win until I found an
alternative solution.
Clearly I needed something. And no one's saying women should go without.
It's good to have a choice.
Yet by buying into the lies pushed by the adverts, we are colluding with
their manipulation of our fears, anxieties, feelings of shame and
embarrassment, their psychological pressurisation. Surely our self-esteem
cannot be so fragile that it needs bolstering by corporate giants?
If we bow to advertising pressure, they will always make us complicit in
their tactics, saying they're just giving us what we want.
I prefer not to let them do that. I prefer to take responsibility for the
waste my body produces, rather than handing it over to a second party who
claims to have my best interests at heart, when really nothing could be
further from the truth.
I am due to start my period any day now. I'm noticeably swollen, and feel
like the apple of Hespirides in Neil Gaiman's story Chivalry: "It was
soft to the touch - deceptively so. Her fingers bruised it and ruby-coloured
juice ran down her hand." One touch and I'll start oozing and leaking too.
Yet my towels boast none of the revolutionary technological gimmicks sported
by their shop-bought counterparts (“Securefit”, anybody?). While the term
“sanitary protection” should be despised - protection from what? - I make my
own reusable armour plating, my own Kevlar.
While the environment is a factor and I like to feel I'm doing my bit, I
like the fact that the companies aren't getting one over on me even more.
And guess what: I've still been on holidays, cruising, flying, cycling,
swimming, skating, clubbing. And I've not flooded once.
Periods are an easy, lazy target, something we can all laugh at with
impunity. Like the vagina dentata with a wry Panty Smile, the
companies are laughing at us. Don't let them.
They like to make us think we need them, but we don't. There is nothing to
fear.
© Agnetha 2008
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