James Weir recaps the terrible purchase of an ‘as-seen-on-Insta’ product
Instagram is the new Danoz Direct for weird products spruiked by old reality contestants. James Weir crumbled and bought one.
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This week’s battle of the reality TV heavyweights means only one thing: an influx of eliminated contestants are about to be spat out into the world and left scrambling to hawk off-brand teeth whitening lasers on social media.
Instagram is the new Danoz Direct and reality TV is just a casting call to find the next Moira. With Married At First Sight, Australian Idol and Survivor all kicking off the 2023 ratings year, we’ll have superb options.
Many of the latest and greatest products from Instagram infomercials have been spotlighted in this column over the years. Forget about the Ab Swing Pro and Shake Weight and Pajamajeans. Now it’s all about weird bleaching toothpastes and facial lasers and vitamins that will give you superhuman levels of collagen.
We all remember being at sleepover parties and staying up really late to find the only thing playing on TV at 3am were Danoz Direct infomercials. There’d always be a guy with a zany voice, spruiking a set of knives that were so sharp they could carve through a Coke can.
The thing about the old Danoz Direct ads is that no sane person ever bought the ridiculous products being flogged. But as infomercials have evolved, these ridiculous novelty items have gone from “as-seen-on-TV” to “as-seen-on-Insta” and we’re being targeted when we’re at our most vulnerable – while scrolling through an endless feed of hot photoshopped people. Just when the self-loathing sets in, a mystical cream that claims to solve every kind of skin condition suddenly doesn’t seem so stupid.
Over the holidays, I was one of those losers who actually bought an “as-seen-on-Insta” product. It’s probably my most shameful secret … along with the time I UberEatsed a $20 packet of Nutella biscuits to my house.
The product was a skin oil containing some kind of peptides that claim to boost your melanin levels and accelerate the tanning process with minimal UV exposure.
I know, I know. I’m shaking my head as I type this.
But as someone who has lived their life with the natural skin tone of an uncooked chicken breast, the promise of a bronzed complexion played into all my insecurities. Some little kids want to grow up to be movie stars or Olympic athletes. I just wanted a tan.
So I purchased my Insta infomercial cream.
“I don’t support your decision but I understand why you did what you did,” one dismayed friend sighed. “It’s a hard life in Sydney’s eastern suburbs when you’re pale and not Pip Edwards.”
She’s right. You go to Bondi Beach and suddenly feel like Tilda Swinton stumbling into the middle of a Seafolly commercial.
After the magic oil arrived by express post, I diligently lathered it on my body, day and night, and fantasised about how my life was about to transform.
Strangers would stop me in the street. “Your skin!” they would marvel. “It’s glowing! Luminous! Like golden caramel dripped over a light bulb! Did you just get back from Greece?”
I’m always searching for the final piece of the puzzle and, during that particular week, my weird new peptide oil was it. It’s my belief that I’m always just one purchase away from finding true contentment. It’s what led me to buy an air fryer, Invisalign and a handheld steam cleaner for my bathroom grout.
In my mind, everything will finally click into place with the purchase of that one missing puzzle piece. I’ll spring out of bed in the morning and not curse the dawn. My body will no longer feel like it’s rotting from the inside out. Yoga will be something I actually practice instead of something I just tell people I do. I’ll start greeting neighbours in the street as we pass each other. I will always be on time.
But the thing about the missing puzzle piece is, when you find it, it doesn’t quite fit.
Disappointment sets in the moment you pull the trigger on your fancy new steam cleaning gun and a sad little plume of hot air puffs out. Needless to say, the magic peptide oil had a similar climax.
I’m still pale. And I feel like every idiot who ever bought an Ab Swing Pro.
Twitter, Facebook: @hellojamesweir