Mad Men isn’t about Joan or Peggy or Don or Betty or Roger or feminism or the 60s or NYC or advertising; it’s not about drinking or smoking or the clothes or the era.
It’s about mid-life and it’s for anyone who has woken up unhappy in some unnamable way after the age of 30. It’s for anyone who grew up knowing they were in for a bright future who woke up with a lot of things they wanted and some they didn’t and tried to get out from under this tremendous sense of disappointment. It’s for anyone who expected to live fiercely and die young who didn’t.
Don Draper is in his mid 30s when the show starts in 1960; it ends late in 1970. It is that decade – the decade of the midlife crisis, the U-curve. It’s the decade when you start to look around or are still in the middle of busily building your life – getting that job, the place to live, kids, spouse. It’s when you finally come up for air after aspiring to so much, of becoming an adult of whatever kind you are or avoiding becoming one altogether.
Is that all there is my friends? is what you ask. I have done these things, read these books, started my life, found love, lost it, found it again, with the same person or a new one, maybe settled for stable over passionate.
It is when your body first starts to tell you that maybe you drink too much or need to quit smoking but you don’t really feel old yet; it’s not until your 40s that you realize that perhaps that stiff knee is only going to get stiffer with time, that it’s never going to feel wholly better.
As a woman it’s the moment you realize you have probably already been the most attractive the culture will allow you to be – which has nothing whatsoever to do with how attractive you are, of course – but it’s also the moment when you realize you have some small authority in whatever your world.
You think about the plans you made and didn’t achieve and the ones you did and your friends’ plans and what they did and didn’t do. It’s when your friend who always wanted to be a writer becomes one and then realizes they got into it for all the wrong reasons or they got into it for the right reasons but those weren’t the ones that made them successful. It’s when the people who make money realize they need meaning and the people who have lived in the moment and for meaning realize they need some money.
It’s when you wonder if you should have married that guy you didn’t marry or whether that woman you did marry was the right one. It’s the decade when you realize you have young children and that your life is about them now, not so much about you, but it’s also the decade when you realize it never was about them but really about you – what you wanted to be as a parent and what you actually are. It’s about sitting on what it means not to be a parent when you realize you’re never going to be one.
It’s when you buy a metaphorical red sports car or dye your hair red or start running marathons even though you never have before.
That decade is when the sex you had in your 20s starts to look unnecessarily athletic and oddly unfocused. It’s when you wonder if you actually knew what turned you on and what didn’t and whether you actually ever experienced an orgasm the way you have more recently. It’s when you realize that getting older physically isn’t so much about your looks or gravity or love handles but about the quality of your skin. You look at young people and wonder if they know how dewy and newborn they look and why you didn’t realize that when it was true about you.
It’s the decade when people divide themselves into two groups – of those who have lost parents and those who haven’t, and the former group gets bigger every day, every month, and you wish it wouldn’t have to.
Mad Men is about all the bad choices that turned out to be great ones and the great ones that turned out to be delusions and the unwitting way you start to live more carefully even if you don’t intend to. It’s about being in love with the person you don’t have and resenting the person who loves you the most. It’s when wild celebrations start to hum with sadness and when sad things start to make you happy in ineffable ways.
Mad Men is about the people who give up everything to grasp some brass ring, about how things you know are going to go away actually do find a way to go away no matter how much you want to keep them. It’s about telling yourself that someone, somewhere has to be perfectly happy with the choices they’ve made and telling yourself that someone somewhere is a smug asshole who has only ever hurt other people.
It’s about owning what you’re ashamed of and what others shame you for; it’s about how you live out the ways that you’re broken.
It’s about how you let go of what you once had.
It’s about when you want others to be happy because someone should be.
It’s when you stop competing with everyone else and realize you’ve never cared about anyone’s opinion but your own, anyway.
Mad Men is a story about growing up and growing old, about the deep faith of cynics and the cheap virtue of idealists.
It’s painfully American and remarkably well dressed. It’s about happiness being that thing you have until you need more happiness. It’s about knowing which is the temporary bandage and which is the permanent wound.
It’s about knowing that that is all there is and that’s more than you ever dreamed was possible.
So let’s keep dancing.
2 Replies to “Mad Us: The End of Mad Men”
Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but if you think one’s 30s require a great deal of adjustment to altered realities and getting used to disappointments, wait until you see what the 50s and early 60s have in store for you!!!
Realizing that all there is and will be already was, and that one has become a relic in others’ eyes when one still feels young enough and energetic enough to want to do more . . . When sometimes one has only recently realized what one really wanted all along.
Fortunate are those few who get to do anything they’ve always wanted but never got to until that age, at least not just in some very attenuated form!
It must be nice to be Chinese, and be able to look forward to all the respect and honor one’s society bestows on the aged. Here, even the not-yet elderly become like a dirty secret, something to be kept out of sight and hopefully banished to distant places where they won’t be around to disturb those who have not yet reached that awful point: the bad smell which is left when one’s Western-begotten optimism has been left around too long, and begins to spoil.
“It’s about owning what you’re ashamed of and what others shame you for; it’s about how you live out the ways that you’re broken.”
I may get this tattooed on my arm.
My post on the boards was all about this, but you clarified it for me.
love to us.
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