Dear Don Draper: An Ode to My Favourite Mad Man
- Rahat Kapur
- Jul 26, 2015
- 6 min read
If you know me at all, you’d know I have 3 main men in my life: Don Draper, Drake and John Mayer (Gosling of course, is honorary and obvious). After the end of Mad Men – Season 7, I couldn’t not take this opportunity to confess my love for the enigma, the man, the legend that is Don Draper. My first crush as a woman (Nick Carter was my first as a girl, obviously making good life choices), it’s only befitting I use this platform to express my ode to the perfection who taught me why an old fashioned isn’t just a drink, it’s the ultimate personality trait of the ideal man.
Without any further ado, I present to you, my ode to Donald Draper.
Dear Donald,
I hope this letter finds you well in whatever imaginary film world you are now inhabiting since the untimely finale of Mad Men – Season 7. Yes, I know you are a fictitious character and a 2D image of a man, portrayed in costume and make-up by the dashing and devastatingly handsome, Jon Hamm. I understand the limitations of my torrid love affair with you, the key one being that you are obviously not real and never will be. But in all honesty Don, as I lay here in a pool of my own drool from watching reruns of Mad Men on this lonely Sunday night, I feel like I cannot go on any longer without telling you and the world what an impact you’ve made on my life.
For 7 seasons, I’ve watched you cheat, manipulate, lie, fornicate, yell, abandon and antagonise your way to the top of your fictitious world of advertising on Madison Avenue, New York. We’ve crossed decades together from the 1950s to the 1970s. We’ve changed agencies and women. I’ve seen you drunk to oblivion, lying vulnerable on the floor reeling in your own insecurity and self-pity. I’ve seen you cheat on every single woman you’ve ever attempted to be monogamous with, be it a wife or steady girlfriend. You’ve been a drifter, lost and purposeless. You are the most unreliable character ever written, and yet somehow Don, I can’t seem to forget you.
You are the exact man my father warned me about when I was an impressionable young woman. The lying, cheating, adulterer douchebag who would leave a trail of broken hearts behind him wherever he went. He warned me men like you are bad news. You’d hurt me, torch me, burn me and leave in the middle of the night. But what he forgot to mention is that you’d be so freaking hot.
I mean, what even are your suits?! And your style?! Whilst on most men a fitted suit in the colour of dirt brown would look like walking poo, but not on you. Oh no. You look like a block of the richest, most velvet milk chocolate. Like a tall glass of scotch, smooth and golden as it glides effortlessly down your throat. None of this skinny pant and skinny tie business the boys are doing nowadays. Your defined shoulder pads and crisp white shirts, eugh, too irresistible. Your slicked hair, gelled back to perfection, not a strand loose. It’s magic. You make me want to run around Sydney with a tub of hair product and slap it down on every hipster guy’s head with a stupid Johnny Bravo quiff. I can practically smell the Old Spice permeating from your body through my screen, the scent of fresh powder and testosterone transcending the celluloid barriers that separate us and any potential restraining order out you may have had out against me if you were real.
Don, when you walk into a room and gaze aloofly into the distance as you sip your tenth glass of whiskey by 10am, I care not that you’re probably extremely drunk and will do no actual work for the rest of the day. Nope. Instead, I try not to pass out from how boss you look, getting paid to do exactly nothing all day but be dashingly handsome and come up with unbelievable quotes like ‘What is happiness but a moment before we need more happiness?’ I mean, HOW? Who even thinks this much less says it?! How can you be that smart AND sexy?! Mind actually blown. In 7 seasons, I think I’ve seen you be productive for exactly 3 minutes, but really, I understand that your charm comes from simply being. Men of the world, take note, life goals.
It’s no surprise that you’ve had your share of a million women and you find it hard to control your urges. Look at you, who doesn’t want you? You’re only human after all, even if it’s through the genius of Matthew Weiner (a.k.a TV God). Your appeal is simply not your fault. And I think that’s why I don’t hold any grudges for all the fornicating and extra-marital affairs you’ve indulged in over the last so many years. How can any woman be held accountable for wanting to jump your bones? We’re women, not stupid. I know people judge you for all the affairs Don, but not me. I understand the science of attraction and let me tell you a lil sumtin sumtin, I am very attracted to you.
I know you got kids Don and normally, I’m not really into the single dads scene. But Sally, Bobby and Jean all seem amazing and honestly, I feel like I can make an exception for them. Aside from the fact that you basically have no real connection with your kids anyway and see them like two times a year, I think this arrangement could work. You make me want to give up my independence and become a 1950s housewife, as long as it’s your wife. Truth be told, I actually think people don’t give you enough credit. All those affairs and you still had all your kids with the same woman, Betty. That’s the mark of a true gentleman in my eyes.
You can abandon me Don, you can fall into a trap of your own making. You can sell your partnership in the agency, marry another woman, then divorce her. You can go find yourself in a retreat and never call me for weeks. The truth is, you can do anything Don and I’ll still love you unconditionally. When you smile, rainbows emerge. Lovers stop quarrelling, the sun shines. You have no idea the pool of morons I have to wade in to find love today and in all honesty, there just isn’t anyone like you left.
Guys wear red pants nowadays that are so tight, you’d think they turned that shade from a lack of blood circulation. They have flowers in their beards and wear shirts with seagulls on them. They have shoes that look like clogs minus any of the culture. They go to the gym every 2 hours and look like clouds and count their carbs. They stare at you from across the room and give you creepy eyes but don’t approach you for hours because they’re so weak and insecure Don. Their suits are so tight and skinny, with such shiny material you’d think they were auditioning to be a disco ball. They drink cocktails and wouldn’t know what an Old Fashioned was even if it was thrown in their face. When I see you, I want to throw my arms around you and smell your alcoholic breath on me. I don’t even want to throw a glass at these men, much less my arms. There’s just no hope Don and that’s why, I love you.
I know you’ve gone away and my Sunday’s will once again be lonely and Don-less. I’ll never get to see you walk into a room and deliver a last minute, half-assed pitch so effortlessly that is immediately faint from your tele-hotness. I’ll never get to hope that you and Peggy end up together because I am basically Indian her (man, I was shipping the Don and Peggy love story so hard). I’ll never again hear you tell Pete to get lost and not be such an obnoxious suck up. But I’ll never ever forget what you taught me about love and how you made me feel, even if you were making it up so you could sell nylons.
Though you had many flaws Donald, your manhood, your whiskey, your cigarettes (yes kids, I know smoking is bad, but shhh he’s allowed to do it cause he ain’t real), your panache and intellect way outdo your adultery, abandonment issues and general inability to function as a normal, emotionally unavailable human. You’ve not only single-handedly destroyed any chance a normal man has with me, but you’ve raised my expectations for what I need from any future boyfriend and husband. Though, let’s be real, I know they’ll never be able to match your overall swag. You’ve set the bar so high, that even a bottle of the finest Canadian Club wouldn’t suffice.
In your own words Don, we may be born alone and we may die alone, but if I can find you along the way in the real world, I’d buy ever nylon you sell and call it love.
Yours faithfully,
R xx
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