I think about
the sort of advice our parents gave to us on men
and women, love and sex, in Canada, of several decades ago.
Of
course, you think, but we are all different in our families. Of course,
but some places overlap, and are
amusing to me, as no one thought to watch what they were saying. There
was no Political
Correctness, an ominous phrase, that
cshould never entered our language.
My mother was fond of giving advice to me, though my dad kept his mouth
shut on feminine matters.
"Men like women who smile
a lot."
"Men like red lipstick on a woman."
"V
neck sweaters look cheap - wear a shirt underneath."
"Mend your underwear right away."
"Too
much eye make up looks cheap."
So we were supposed to smile a lot, and apply tons of red lilpstick, yet
watch for Cheap Behaviour in other matters?
In
fact,
cheapness was a metaphore for being
too sexy. Being too sexy could lead to a great deal of trouble in that
time period.
In fact, total social ruination.
Pretty
clothes were definitely encouraged. These pretty clothes emphasized
the feminine figure shape, and my
mother started me off well, a little girl, with beautiful outfits.
I did not have too many, yet they are all memorable, especially
the dresses.
I
stood in my bedroom with my mother yanking the sashes on my dresses
tighter, to the flounce of my petticoats and
crinolines would flounce out even
further, my non existent waistline defined by feminine artifice.
Humourously
my first brassiere was called a Trainer Bra, as though breasts were
small leafy plants that needed commercial
encouragement. I was happy to have
an adult object of clothing, yet no encouragements from my mother could
defer my
plans to look like a high fashion
model, tall and dangerously thin.
Any
girl who read fashion magazines knew that looking like a mature woman
was to be avoided. Boyish figures
were the elegant choice of anyone with good taste. I liked my flat
chest, though my
shoulders seemed too wide.
So
wearing out pretty dresses, smiling a lot at boys and men, we were in
need of training as to when put the
brakes on, with these males we encouraged greatly to take an interest in
us.
As
for our fear of looking too cheap? Not at all, we carried ouot
cosmetics in our purses to high school, and
reapplied more foundation and
blusher away from our mothers' watchful eyes. Even walking down the
driveway from our
house at 160 Beaconsfield Boulevard,
I rolled up the waistline of my dreary grey flannel school skirt to
make it much shorter.
I am listening to Classic
Rock and Roll as I write this, smiling with warmth and affection, for my own crazy relatives,
my own crazy cultural heritage.