I have to tell you, I'm simply dying for the next season of Mad Men. I have been enchanted with the show since it began.
Besides being seduced by the odd sense of nostalgia it induces in me (which is strange as it's an era I only know through old movies and my mother's Super-8 films), I am totally intrigued by the idea of masculinity during this time; men who smoked and drank at work and had sex on their lunch breaks.
Men who knew how to unhook garter belts and stockings. Men who loved hanging out with their buddies but always (eventually) went home to their wives.
Once while we were watching, I jokingly asked my mad man, "Don't you kind of wish that things were still that way?" to which he quite seriously replied, "Yes."
Let's just state the obvious: I'm hardly the picture-perfect "wifey." For starters, I'm not a fan of the word "wife" at all (thankfully, my partner in crime doesn't associate with the word "husband" either). I'm also slightly sheepish about the fact that I have never – not once – done his laundry.
I certainly don't spend my weekends scrubbing toilets or pressing shirts. It's a special treat if I manage to have food waiting on the table when he gets home. In fact, more often then not, my partner is the one who has cleaned up and has dinner ready for me.
And then it dawned on me: I work late, need solitude, get grumpy when I haven't eaten, and (kind of) expect romance to be according to my whims. I'm a tad embarrassed to admit that I may be living the life of a 1960s man.
While I'm not sure if this is what feminists meant by "equal opportunity," a small part of me is delighted to realize this is something that could only occur in a post-feminist world. The fact is my partner didn't choose me for being a good homemaker any more than I chose him to be a good "provider."
And I know there are lots more hard-working women out there who are exactly like me.
So while I may never bring myself to do his laundry and the kitchen floor will never be clean enough for you to eat off it, I promise I'll never expect flowers on Valentine's Day, I'll never want gold baubles over a hand written note and I'll always be able to make a mean martini.
