by Rose Madeline Mula

I couldn’t sleep last night.  Again. 

My busy brain wouldn’t turn off.  I started pondering crucial questions, such as why do high fashion models always look so angry?  Is it because they’re in agony teetering on those ridiculous six-inch stilettoes — or because they’re forced to wear ugly outfits like flouncy dresses with unlaced combat boots and plaid skirts with flowered shirts — or because some of the ads they appear in are absolutely nonsensical, like the one I saw as I was flipping through some back issues of Vanity Fair yesterday.  It was an ad identified as Bottega Veneta (must admit, I don’t know what that is). It featured a model (yes, angry looking) in profile, wearing a nondescript dress, striding purposefully ahead. Her arm hung by her side, and from her hand a smallish pocketbook, which she held by a long strap, dangled almost at street level. Flames were shooting from the pocketbook, which didn’t seem to concern her a bit.  

Examining the quality of nylon stockings, Malmö clothing factory 1954, Wikipedia; photographer Erik Liljeroth, Nordic Museum

Huh? Was this an ad for the pocketbook? A flre accelerant? The tranquilizers she must have taken to keep so calm? It was impossible to tell. I guess I’d be angry, too, if I had to pose for something so idiotic — and life-threatening.

My restless brain then wandered to wondering about various other puzzlements:

Whatever happened to slips, for instance?  Ditto panties. Do they expect me to wear a thong?  Come on! Have they met me? And does anyone but me wear a bra anymore?  Which reminds me — who remembers modesty?

And who remembers when a huge rear end was a liability instead of an asset, so to speak?

Are you lucky enough (and old enough) to recall songs with beautiful melodies, instead of discordant noise?  And beautiful lyrics like, “…Now laughing friends deride tears I cannot hide. But I smile and say, when a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes,” instead of  “*)%$&$%#^&*%(#@$#%#&,” which is what the lyrics of every contemporary pop song sound like to me. Yet every young person I know is able to translate these unintelligible utterances into actual words.  But when they do, I’m tempted to haul them to the sink and wash their mouths with soap. Is it really lawful to say such things on the radio these days?

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