Status Quoman woke today to find a cool breeze blowing past the Fortress of Solitude. Granted, the Fortress is cleverly disguised to look like a typical medium-wage-earner's studio apartment, but a true superhero does not require the fancier trappings -- or at least not giant, isolated, mansion-adjacent caverns in which to store them. It would be nice to have an extra cavern somewhere, though, she thought. It would be perfect storage for her tighter civvies.
She walked past her bookshelf, stacked with Wollstonecraft, Woolf, Stein, to sit at the SuperQuomputer for her daily mornings' work: scanning the news for crimes that require the aid of her superpowers. It would be nice if today could be an off day, one in which the Quo-signal would not be lit by a woman or man in need, in which a crime against body and brain would go uncommitted, in which the tenuous balance between a feminist lifestyle and the quest for healthy body and body image would go uncompromised. She could go for a bike ride. Catch up on Wired. Flaunt her secret identity with reckless abandon.
She was abruptly pulled from her reverie as a story caught her eye -- it was about the increasing demand in the Evil Fashion Overlords' Image Mines for ever more raw materials, in this case, models with dance backgrounds. One sentence specifically made Status Quoman's magic big bones quake: “Ten years ago we didn’t have that many models around, but the turnaround now is so high that in order for the girls to compete they have to be perfect.”
Concavia, Status Quoman thought grimly.
She reached for her cape.
A response to #FemFuture
11 years ago
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