April 14, 2014
When I first heard about Mad Men and all the rave reviews, my reaction was “a show about a bunch of smoking, boozing, sexing, chauvinistic, high-powered ad executives from the sixties? No, thanks.”
Then I Netflixed the pilot, and it was all over.
Turns out I get a perverse pleasure out of watching expecting mothers smoke cigarettes and toss back glasses of wine. I mean, pregnant women don’t get to do anything anymore. No cocktails, no pain killers, no cold medicine. Is this some sort of punishment for post-sixties liberation?
Haven’t we all had those moments where liquor at the workplace seemed like a really good idea? I can’t tell you how many times my frazzled boss has emerged from yet another hour-long teleconference, wishing I had a flask hidden somewhere in my desk drawer.
As for the sexism, well, some of that really hasn’t changed much. When my girl Joan has to stoically mask her face after her intelligence is insulted or swallow yet another instance of her authority being undermined at the whim of a male superior, I empathize one hundred percent. Because something similar usually happened to me just last week.
Then there are moments like these, from the Season 7 Mad Men premiere: