I’ve told John that the next time we exit a plane, I want him to be clutching my hand.
I’ve watched American presidents, British prime ministers, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, and I know how inspiring it is to be seen leaving an aircraft hand in hand, grinning, and exchanging meaningful glances.
John reminded me that the staircases they put up for ordinary folk aren’t wide enough for such manoeuvres, and that to do it properly, we’d need to practice.
“You’d have to have your arm way above your head,” he warned, ever-willing, “and I’d have to bend over. And we’d need to be in perfect step.”
“By the way”, he asked just for clarification, “how did you plan to manage your wheelie, your blazer, and your bag from the Duty Free? And how would I catch your eye and wink?”
“Besides,” he added perceptively, “don’t they use ramps nowadays?”
Darn. He’s right. We’d look much more impressive and tender with our arms free, descending the Stairway of the Stars. Brad and Angelina would never emerge in front of their adoring fans through a ramp, like cattle at a rodeo.
I love some things about public intimacy. And lucky for me, thanks to the media, all intimacy is public these days.
Movie stars seem to thrive on it: I bet the minute Brad ruffles his little Fu Manchu goateeny, and puffs himself up to speak, Angelina calls Hello magazine and alerts them.
“Come quickly and bring a cameraman. Brad has put on his deep and impenetrable look. I think he may be about to say something that will shake the world!”
It’s all so different now. When we were young, you didn’t tell anyone a thing.
“Shhhhh!” was the watchword in homes where children could be listening. Some parents even spoke in a foreign language at such times (“Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh!” with inflection), much to their children’s astonishment.
Now People magazine, Facebook, Oprah, reality TV, have led us to believe we live in tell-all times: repeat everything you hear, and if there’s something you don’t know, make it up. This is the message. And with any luck, you’ll go viral.
Much of it is innocuous and irrelevant. But the one area that’s now blatantly – and gobsmackingly – in the public domain, is sex.
It used to all be so subtle: a soft-focus moment, a sunset, a light turned off, curtains blowing in a gentle breeze, an orchestral sound. And right there you knew: sex was taking place.
Ozzie and Harriet, of course, never had sex – any more than the Queen or your parents did. Ozzie slept in a chaste bed next to Harriet’s, with a table between them to protect Harriet from any untoward advances he – her husband of at least 20 years – might make.
And she had a dressing gown lying across the foot of her bed, so she could nip to the loo in the middle of the night without her nightie exposing anything and embarrassing Ozzie.
Well, that’s all changed of course and sex has become purely recreational.
I know, I know, I sound mediaeval. I’m trying hard to adjust.
But why is it that every movie you see now has an obligatory copulation scene, full of huffing and heaving and gasping and general acrobatics, followed by a bum shot of the man getting up?
Usually the couple has just met in a bar or some other public place, said hello, and headed straight for a bed that’s curiously just around the corner.
Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com
I’ve watched American presidents, British prime ministers, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, and I know how inspiring it is to be seen leaving an aircraft hand in hand, grinning, and exchanging meaningful glances.
John reminded me that the staircases they put up for ordinary folk aren’t wide enough for such manoeuvres, and that to do it properly, we’d need to practice.
“You’d have to have your arm way above your head,” he warned, ever-willing, “and I’d have to bend over. And we’d need to be in perfect step.”
“By the way”, he asked just for clarification, “how did you plan to manage your wheelie, your blazer, and your bag from the Duty Free? And how would I catch your eye and wink?”
“Besides,” he added perceptively, “don’t they use ramps nowadays?”
Darn. He’s right. We’d look much more impressive and tender with our arms free, descending the Stairway of the Stars. Brad and Angelina would never emerge in front of their adoring fans through a ramp, like cattle at a rodeo.
I love some things about public intimacy. And lucky for me, thanks to the media, all intimacy is public these days.
Movie stars seem to thrive on it: I bet the minute Brad ruffles his little Fu Manchu goateeny, and puffs himself up to speak, Angelina calls Hello magazine and alerts them.
“Come quickly and bring a cameraman. Brad has put on his deep and impenetrable look. I think he may be about to say something that will shake the world!”
It’s all so different now. When we were young, you didn’t tell anyone a thing.
“Shhhhh!” was the watchword in homes where children could be listening. Some parents even spoke in a foreign language at such times (“Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh!” with inflection), much to their children’s astonishment.
Now People magazine, Facebook, Oprah, reality TV, have led us to believe we live in tell-all times: repeat everything you hear, and if there’s something you don’t know, make it up. This is the message. And with any luck, you’ll go viral.
Much of it is innocuous and irrelevant. But the one area that’s now blatantly – and gobsmackingly – in the public domain, is sex.
It used to all be so subtle: a soft-focus moment, a sunset, a light turned off, curtains blowing in a gentle breeze, an orchestral sound. And right there you knew: sex was taking place.
Ozzie and Harriet, of course, never had sex – any more than the Queen or your parents did. Ozzie slept in a chaste bed next to Harriet’s, with a table between them to protect Harriet from any untoward advances he – her husband of at least 20 years – might make.
And she had a dressing gown lying across the foot of her bed, so she could nip to the loo in the middle of the night without her nightie exposing anything and embarrassing Ozzie.
Well, that’s all changed of course and sex has become purely recreational.
I know, I know, I sound mediaeval. I’m trying hard to adjust.
But why is it that every movie you see now has an obligatory copulation scene, full of huffing and heaving and gasping and general acrobatics, followed by a bum shot of the man getting up?
Usually the couple has just met in a bar or some other public place, said hello, and headed straight for a bed that’s curiously just around the corner.
Then, if neither of them has done anything too disgraceful or bizarre, and if upon sizing each other up, there’s still a bit of casual interest left, they might go to dinner together and exchange telephone numbers.
I recently asked my much younger friend, Kim, “Is all this stuff I’m seeing in the movies accurate?”
“Yup, pretty much so,” she replied unabashedly.
Which brings me back to my airplane ta-da moment. When you consider the alternatives, stepping out of a plane and grabbing your husband’s hand has several advantages: your hair stays tidy, you can’t get pregnant or pick up an STD, and you don’t need to see the chiropractor the next day.
I’d say for public intimacy, it can’t be beat.
I recently asked my much younger friend, Kim, “Is all this stuff I’m seeing in the movies accurate?”
“Yup, pretty much so,” she replied unabashedly.
Which brings me back to my airplane ta-da moment. When you consider the alternatives, stepping out of a plane and grabbing your husband’s hand has several advantages: your hair stays tidy, you can’t get pregnant or pick up an STD, and you don’t need to see the chiropractor the next day.
I’d say for public intimacy, it can’t be beat.
Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com
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