Last night’s season finale of “Mad Men” featured the engagement of Don Draper, the handsome, middle-aged, literally self-made man – to his 25 year old secretary. Which brought up the question, “Does she really know him?” (Answer: no, since Don has not yet revealed his actual identity to her).
That resonates because I’m wondering the same thing: at what point do we really know another person well enough to say that we love them and not our idea of them?
I know Ron’s birth date, his parents’ names, his allergies, his blood type, some of his medical history, where he was born and where he went to school, and almost everything about his dimensions except his shoe size.
I know which unions he belongs to, a little about his finances, his favorite color, what he likes to eat, the music he enjoys and his religious preferences.
I know that he has musical talent and that he is generous, kind and hard-working. I know some of the things that make him really happy and a little about how he’d like to spend the rest of his life.
This seems like a lot, but there are important pieces missing. Like, what pushes his buttons.
I can tell you all about mine: pro-adoption comments and attitudes. Child molestation and abuse. Denegration of women because of weight. The undeserved breaks that small-boned women with dark hair get in this world. Any mention of the Cohen or Valzania families.
And come to think of it, that’s about it. Obvious pattern, and thus, very easy for anyone who cares about me to avoid.
I know a lot about what Ron has done in his life but very little about how he feels.
I don’t know how he feels about his divorce and his break-up with his common law: regret? anger? sadness? relief? I don’t know he feels about his various love affairs or for that matter, his work: does he like to work or does he want to retire? Does he regret the one(s) who got away?
What makes him afraid?
Again, I can tell you about my fears. I’m afraid that my son will die young. I’m afraid that he’s hurt his kids so much already that they cannot love or trust him or for that matter, other people. I’m afraid that I’ll run out of money and will have to live in some wretched senior housing where people scotch tape shamrocks to their doors. I’m afraid of barking dogs.
Finally, I don’t know how Ron would have changed his life if he’d have the opportunity to go back, or what he’d like to be now.
For me? I’m sorry I ever started smoking, that I didn’t cut Peter and myself off from the Cohens a long time ago, that I never had the chance to meet my mother or to learn my father’s name.
I’m sorry that when I met Ron, I was a screwed-up adoptee who didn’t have the self-confidence to: walk out when he told me about Suzanne; stand up to Rob; not say idiotic, presumptuous things like “you can’t see your friends for a year” (Excuse ME?).
Who would I like to be now? Me, but petite. I’d like to be about a size zero. I’d like to have my eyes and nose fixed and dye my hair.
And that way, I’d know that I would always be loved, no matter what, and no one would mind if I loved them. When it comes down to it, isn’t that the most important thing?