If you were a female in the fifties the expectations were simple: wear a cone bra corset, own a pair of cateyes glasses, have a good supply of hairspray, and drink and smoke less if you’re pregnant. If you were pregnant (and smoking and drinking), you wouldn’t be judged so long as you were married (which you would have done at a young age) and living the American dream – which includes dreaming of having amazing kitchen appliances like a dishwasher or, as Alice refers to it, “a magic cabinet.”
The second world war changed some of these expectations a bit, but ‘modern’ movies, such as 9 to 5, and everyday occurrences show societal gender roles are still alive and well. I have a coworker who regularly comes in my office and expects me to stop whatever I am doing – which is usually sitting in my chair and working on the computer – to give him a hug (which I have no interest in giving him). If I don’t do so, he’ll say (with his arms reaching out), “Come on, come on, come on. Get up and give me a hug. Come on, come on. Get up, get up. Give me a hug.” This week, when he did this, I replied, “Not doing it. I watched 9 to 5 this weekend.” Unfortunately, this information fell on deaf and demeaning ears. He replied, “Fine. I’ll just come over there, bend down, and give you a hug.” I really need to invest in a garage door opener.
All of this seemed fitting, however, later in the evening when Sleepless, White Woman, One And Done, Ice Cream Man, Left Eared, Tile and I all attended OldiesOke. Although we didn’t have cone bra corsets, we did have the hair, hairspray, red lipstick, dresses, jackets, cigarette pants, heels, nylons, and cateyes glasses. We looked good. If nothing else, 50s fashion was very sexy. While eating dinner, and after Sleepless had shown off her thigh highs and I my garter straps, White Woman made an announcement, “I’m wearing my mom’s old cone bra.” She then asked Passed The Sniff Test, “Wanna feel?” Two days in a row that one of my friends has offered one of my other friends an opportunity to feel their breasts. Two days in a row that my friends have respectfully declined.
As we were attempting to select songs to sing we quickly discovered that, outside of musicals, there weren’t a lot of female artists in the 50s and there were even fewer in the karaoke songbank. I would have settled for singing ‘How Much is That Doggie in the Window?”, unfortunately, it wasn’t an option. Just as we were getting ready to sing Wilson Phillips, we noticed Jazz Hands. We had recently been told that he died in a car accident, but here he was, living, breathing and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon at the bar. “Not dead. I’m alive. Maybe I came back to life, like Jesus. Maybe, I’m Jazz Hands Jesus,” he told us. Maybe. One thing was certain, Jazz Hands was alive and well, like the 50s. Like women in the 50s, we cheered for the boys as they sang and did what we should and do best, smiled and looked pretty. I’m sure change will come if we just hold on for one more day.