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This Spinster’s Doing Just Fine, Thanks.
Lessons from a book published in the 1930s on living alone.
There’s much to malign about the 1930s, a decade where we decided to turn off the humanity light and bathe in the heart of darkness. Ours was a country ravaged by hunger and poverty, steeped in populist extremism, and haunted by one of the most horrific atrocities in recent history. If we give the words a double-take, we might be talking about the decade otherwise known as 2020, but I’m not here to wax poetic on a history that desperately wants to repeat itself.
But Vogue, ever-relevant, reminded us that we could still wrap ourselves in chic housecoats, swathe our persistent sadness with coiffed screen sirens who always got their man. Yet, some of us were cat-cradlers to the casket. I’m certain if I were alive in the 1930s, I would be the flouncy, pajama-wearing, spectacle-sporting sort. Hurling highball glasses at the television screen screaming, fuck you and the pony you rode in on. I probably would’ve been booted out of my boarding house for my un-ladylike behavior and ended up in the street where a pack of feral cats would make a feast of my face.
But I digress.
