On Monday, Mariah Carey strutted out from behind the curtain onto the set of “The Jay Leno Show” wearing the provocative female pop star uniform: The genitalia-skimming dress and heels with enough straps to fasten down an entire mosh pit of feet. She looked great, though I’m certain the outfit cost as much as a Northwestern education and was twice as hard to get into. She appeared heavily dusted in the kind of frosted make-up I hoarded as a tween, only hers didn’t match her braces like mine did (Blotnick: 1, Carey: 0) and seemed to have been competently applied (1-1.)
Nevermind why I was actually spending my time watching “The Jay Leno Show;” by the time Mariah sat down, her explosive cleavage had me too apprehensive to move. You know when you see someone pour a soda too aggressively and you just want to yell, “Catch it!” It was like that, frozen in time; just substitute boobs for soda.
On a superficial level all the right elements were in place, yet it’s clear certain components of the Mariah formula are deteriorating and getting harder to overlook: She’s a year shy of 40, married and inarticulate even for a celebrity. After tripping in the stripper-torture heels, she semi-sensically lamented, “It’s just so abusive when they can’t make the shoes properly!” And as millions of viewers were on the cusp of seeing a nipple, she announced, “I recommend comedians (for husbands), but not mine or I will beat up!” She will beat up! She’ll beat up. Whelp, that’s a sentence.
Only the women on Bravo’s “Real Housewives” series will tell you that this is typical behavior for a 39-year-old woman, but it’s not all Mariah’s fault. The modern media and genetics operate in different directions: The former says you can’t age, the latter demands you must. And so opens an uncomfortable rift between the cultural entrenchment of Mariah as a sugary girly-girl and the fact that she’s really more of a, um, deluded womanly-woman.
I realize that compared to this week’s cover story about environmentalism, a multimillionaire singer struggling with aging deserves a sonata on the world’s most microscopic air-violin. Still, she’s had more No. 1 singles than Elvis and her career has lasted my entire lifetime (to quote Ol’ Dirty Bastard literally and sincerely, “Me and Mariah go back like babies with pacifiers”). I can’t help but feel disappointed that she’s competing on the level of the Katy Perrys and Pussycat Dolls of the world. It’s just no fun to watch her try to fight genetics and shoehorn herself into the sex appeal of a naughty teenager; her anxiety is justified and too palpable.
Does she still have it? Mostly. She’s still making hits, and she’s in no shortage of encouragement. I have a feeling she’s insulated herself within a cabal of handlers who cheer, “more butterflies, more sparkles!” and she’d sooner drown in her Stuffed Animal Room (let’s assume she has one) than embrace maturity or subtlety. But we’re certainly nearing the expiration date of this iteration of Mariah, and I’m ready for a reinvention when she is.
