Landline Lusting, or, Glass Ceilings

(image taken from Wall Fizz)

(image taken from Jim Halterman)
 

Lately, I have been harboring a not completely unwarranted obsession with 1990s culture and technology; mostly, being in the currently pervasive cacophonous cocoon of constant connectivity, I relish and long for a time of landlines. A time when loyalty and adherence to dates and appointments reigned, when flakiness would not be tolerated and was not engendered. A time, a society, when and where relinquishing your telephone number to a worthy adversary had truly significant meaning. A person could dial a number, receive either a busy tone, or an answering machine message, and would surrender, assuming that the intended recipient party is simply not available and would return the oral correspondence at a later date. Having fallen victim to a constant bombardment of emails and client nagging telephone

This obsession with the ability to become, if desired, a desert island has been manifesting in an indulgence in 1990s film and television. Mostly, late night watching of romantic comedies, which may or may not star Jennifer Aniston and her flowing hair. An embarrassing admission: watching the occasional episode of Ally McBeal has also occurred. Netflix streaming television has enabled a myriad of embarrassing viewing choices, which, otherwise, would have been impossible, rather implausible, or would have required a research and downloading activation energy catalyst, which is a barrier that I am unwilling to surmount. Shameful foibles such as watching Ally McBeal occur because of Netflix; I strip myself of all accountability and responsibility. I almost covered the pile of books, art, philosophy, poetry, sitting on my bedside table, waiting to be read, to shield them from the utter intellectual vapidity and horror.

Thankfully, my affair with Ally McBeal, unlike that of my tender pinings for landlines, has proven very short lived. This has been predominantly due to the absurdly and ludicrously poor tailoring of the suits worn by the fictional female characters, though, weak narrative and obnoxious, stagnant characters did not help.

There are a number of industries, office settings, and professional realms where a little thigh can be tasteful, beautiful, empowering. I hate to sound arcane and like a sartorial teetotaler, like some withered grandmother that is neither coherent nor relevant, at least in the forum of popular culture, but, honestly, high-powered, respected lawyers do not wear mini skirts. While, on the one hand, breaking through the glass ceiling with a stiletto heel can prove a certain point, the shattering should occur regardless, with an acute analytical mind, a willingness and a prowess in taking risks, with eloquence, with intelligence and spirit.