After 92 episodes, Mad Men is finished. My weekly date with Don Draper is no longer on my calendar and I’m already feeling the void. *Sigh*. It was a good run.
I can’t recall who originally convinced me to start watching the series, which is a shame. I owe them a sincere thank you for turning me on to what has been one of the most compelling television programs I’ve ever watched. Since I came to the series a bit late, perhaps a season or two after it began, I binge watched the first 8 or 10 episodes to get caught up. I never did that again, preferring instead to savor each weekly installment without haste, usually alone.
There’s nothing I can say about the Mad Men that hasn’t already been said by folks much more astute and articulate than I. I loved the costumes, the perfectly selected music, and the detailed sets that recreated an era that I just barely missed. The characters were so multidimensional and the writers balanced their appearances so impeccably, never portraying any one as more important than the others. Other than Don, that is. He was the sun around which everyone else orbited, I think.
Don Draper, in my eyes, is not husband material. Don’t get me wrong, he’s got a number of excellent qualifications including charm, smoldering hotness and excellent earnings potential, but ultimately he’s a project of epic proportion. I’m at an age when projects of the male variety no longer appeal, at least not ones which are long term. I suppose I could have spared him an afternoon or two, though, kind of like that other Sylvia. You remember her, right?
I know that romantic trysts were not acceptable during the Mad Men era (are they even now?), but I’d like to believe that if Don and I had met at that lovely California retreat, we would have definitely shared a Coke and a smile. Om.