To think that I saw it on ... the Queensway

It was raining this morning as I drove in to work. A good soaking rain, my Mum would call it.

It's still a bit early around here for the grass to have greened up or the trees to be showing leaves - so between the lead-grey skies, grey-brown trees, brown-grey grass, grey road and stream of dark rain-soaked vehicles, I suppose it's not terribly surprising my attention was caught by the flash of bubble-gum pink about 6 or 7 cars ahead of me in the other lane. Pink cars are not all that common around fusty old Ottawa at the best of times, and this morning the colour contrasted beautifully with all the blah-ness of the morning commute.

Nice, I thought to myself. There's someone who's choosing to be a bit different. Not a colour I could personally live with ... but still, good for her, I thought.

At least until I passed her.

The car was a little two-seater hatchback convertible (I'm not sure what kind - maybe a VW Golf or something like it). It was indeed a bright bubble-gum pink ... so far so good. But what really caught my eye was the fuchsia-pink, SEQUINED licence plate cover and the name "Jessica" air-brushed in a circle of little stars and ribbons just above the back bumper. Yup - this vehicle was a life-sized Barbie car.

With Barbie herself driving it, to boot. Platinum blonde hair, carefully styled, make-up perfect (from what I could see), and a pair of enormous sunglasses - remember, it's pouring rain! - with thick, white plastic rims.

It was all just too much. What had first appeared to be a rather fun nudge-nudge, wink-wink at the general stodginess of Ottawa society had become something else entirely. The very completeness of Jessica's packaging disturbed me. To all appearances, she was the embodiment of the brainless, blonde, good-time girl. It may not have accurately reflected the person inside, but it was clearly the image she had deliberately chosen for herself. This was the way she wanted to be seen by the world.

Admittedly, for all I know, Jessica was a pre-med student with a genius IQ who worked with inner-city youth and volunteered her time a homeless shelter. And perhaps I am being overly censorious about other people's lifestyle decisions.

But, at that moment, I wanted to pull Jessica out of her car, give her a good shake, and say "Think about this for a minute, child. Is this really who you are? Is this really who you want to be? Show me a sign that there's more to you than candy-colours and a slavish imitation of Paris Hilton." I wanted to explain that she could be more than a stereotype without losing her sense of fun ... that she didn't need sparkles and big white sunglasses to be noticed ... that if she was old enough to have her own car, she was old enough to leave behind the fashion and lifestyle preferences of an 8-year-old.

I didn't, of course. And I doubt I would ever be that presumptuous, even given the opportunity. People need to find their own way after all. But still, is it just me, or isn't it a bit bizarre that while (some) little girls are dressing - and sometimes acting - like hookers, (some) adult women are dressing - and sometimes acting - like characters from a Saturday morning cartoon?