I too have mistaken wanting to have weird sex for thinking I cared about a man talking about his job.
I love Mad Men in a stupid, grandiose way, in a way that’s about history and the moon landing and the feelings you only have driving at night and wishing I could have known my parents before I was born and wanting to be good enough at something that it punishes everyone who has ever hurt me. I will be partway through a rewatch of this show up until the day they put me in the ground, where I will hopefully be buried in every single dress Megan wore in Season six onward.
We have so much less choice about what influences us, what we pick up and carry through the rest of our lives, than we think we do. By the time we’re old enough to decide to consciously construct a personality, so much of who we are has already been decided by things to which we didn’t even know we were forming attachments. A single repeated habit can so easily become the text of a whole life. I was so malleable when I was very young, so dangerously sponge-like, that anything I stood next to for too long became a feature of who I am, indelible, coming along for the rest of the ride like my lungs and my height and my eye color, there whether I like it or not.