Mad Men Me Mad
This week of Thanksgiving has been filled with reminders of the terrible ways that men can behave. It’s such a shame. No new mother believes that she’ll raise a boy to become creepy and rude. Rude and creepy is not the image she has when rubbing her belly awaiting a bundle of baby in blue.
But it seems that the time of gentlemanly behavior has died a slow death. And if there’s a flicker of hope, won’t it shine on me soon?
I’ve been Netflix deep into a Mad Men marathon, and more than ever wish for the days when (on the surface) it was simpler.
I’m not naïve. I know about philandering, and the secrets that people kept (and keep), but it was all packaged so neatly, making it much more bearable.
We’ve cycled back to the styles of the sixties. Stove pipe pants and statement necklaces. Full skirts and ladylike dresses.
But the properness is gone. And with it, seemingly too has men’s willingness to be gentle with the other sex, while still staking claim to the essence of their own being.
And so I sit snuggled in my bed on this Sunday afternoon, a single girl writing about what’s missing from her life, with dapper Don Draper reminding her, one browser to the left.