“Mrs. Maisel” is Making Me Marvelous

I’m a woman in my thirties, which, in age-obsessed Los Angeles, renders me in my seventies. 

During the spectacular Super Bowl Halftime Show that featured artists such as Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg —who made it big decades ago — I turned around to one of my houseplants and bragged, “That’s my jam.” 

And lately, I’ve been calling a lot of people, from telemarketers to waiters, “dear,” and complaining to anyone who will listen that young people today wouldn’t know good music if Eminem hit them over the head.

I’m in need of glamour and variety; of high heels, stiff drinks, and a world in which some good old-fashioned red lipstick always saves the day. 

I’m in need of glamour and variety; of high heels, stiff drinks, and a world in which some good old-fashioned red lipstick always saves the day. Suffice it to say, I badly need the return of a show like Amazon Prime’s “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel,” which debuted the first two episodes of its fourth season on February 18 after a two-year hiatus.

With its glorification of the late Fifties and early Sixties, the show, which tells the story of a beautiful and brilliant Jewish housewife turned aspiring stand-up comedian named Miriam “Midge” Maisel, allows me an escape from my world of sweatpants, masks, meals my kids don’t eat and more sweatpants. There’s nothing wrong with sweatpants, and it’s not my business to tell others how to dress. But I know myself, and I’ve hit a metaphorical [sweatpants] wall.

I can’t deny the delicious escapism the series offers. I previously thought I wanted to see television shows that reflected the indescribable challenges, however beautiful, of raising young children, but as it turns out, all I really want is to watch the fabulous exploits of a mother who owns more pillbox hats than diapers. 

Presently, I’m committed to channeling the fabulous “femme joy” of Mrs. Maisel while still retaining my own lifestyle, which mostly consists of writing, denting my minivan, and ignoring a mound of laundry I’ve promised to fold after retirement. Channeling Midge over the past few weeks started with the physical, as I gradually began swapping out old sweatpants for midiskirts and, on one occasion, a full-blown dress, which was promptly stained with tiny hands covered in peanut butter. It all began with the tangible and physical, but soon, I noticed a change in my attitude and lifestyle that has helped me put my problems in a healthy perspective. 

For example, each time I’m filled with anxious worry over whether my children will ever learn to regulate their emotions or, at the very least, put their toys away, I remember that if they were real, Midge’s children now would be in their mid-60s and wholly accountable for their own coping skills — and toys. Things almost always have a way of working themselves out.

Some of my Midge-inspired physical endeavors, such as working or running errands while wearing high heels, are downright misguided, at least for someone as uncoordinated as me, but inarguably fun. And in L.A., a beachside city of relaxed fashion standards, it’s been exciting and energizing to wear anything other than flip-flops.

Naturally, I wonder whether I’m setting the women’s movement back at least four decades: I recently began waiting until my husband falls asleep to remove the day’s makeup, à la Midge (and her mother). 

Naturally, I wonder whether I’m setting the women’s movement back at least four decades: I recently began waiting until my husband falls asleep to remove the day’s makeup, à la Midge (and her mother). I know, I’m awful, but it felt good to look good before bedtime, given that my usual nightly routine for the past few years has involved accidentally applying diaper rash cream to my face before collapsing in a daze.

In my defense, I believe that reclaiming fabulousness and empowerment as a woman and mother on my own terms, with inspiration from “Mrs. Maisel” and a healthy dose of modern-day perspective, is a totally feminist endeavor. 

I’m discovering the power of connecting to “femme joy” and the radical act of reclaiming my own life and talent, even as I love and care for my children. It’s not an either/or; I’m not frazzled and frumpy or perfectly-coiffed and fabulous. Instead, it’s the power of “yes.” And that power, ironically, is the motor that pushes the best comedy forward.

For me, the antidote to the survival mode that stems from mothering young children isn’t always more sleep or increased help around the house. Sometimes, it’s a fleeting moment, one in which you look in the mirror and see a glimmer of someone fabulous looking back at you, whatever your definition of fabulous might be.

But there’s so much more to emulating “Mrs. Maisel” than wanting to slip my tired feet into some glamorous house slippers, rather than stepping on yesterday’s banana. The show is also plowing the metaphoric snow of self-doubt which has plagued me ever since I became a mother and began excoriating myself for not always feeling fulfilled by that role. 

“What if some of us are just supposed to talk to adults our entire lives?” Midge asks the audience during a live set in Season Two. It’s a legitimate question, one which I ponder a lot these days as I peel stubborn, dried-out jam off the dining room floor while contemplating my master’s degree in public diplomacy.

As a mother with young children, I am trying to claim some joy and space of my own, though there are days when I could especially use more space. If I had obsessively watched “Mrs. Maisel” during the height of the pandemic, when both of my kids were home from school and my husband and I were also forced to work from our dining room table, I probably would have blinded myself with those kitten heels. But today, with school back in session, I possess both the openness and the bandwidth to take a few cues from Midge herself.  

Yes, I need the return of  “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel” in my life. That’s why I recently spent $38 to buy YSL 201 red lipstick (the same brand that, in 2018, head makeup artist Patricia Regan confirmed Midge wore during most performance scenes in earlier seasons). With price tags like this, our children will simply have to eat generic Cheerios and knock-off Mott’s applesauce until 2024.

I purchased the lipstick online, with the hope that it would be my new secret weapon. I even wondered if those red lips would make me feel indestructible, at least until I trip on whatever toys the kids have left on the floor and land miserably on my tailbone. By that point, I’ll probably sound less like Doris Day at brunch and more like Lenny Bruce in jail. 

As soon as the lipstick arrived in the mail, I meticulously applied it with a lipstick brush, dabbed my lips, checked my teeth and stepped outside. I was radiant; I was unstoppable; and then, I remembered that most spaces I frequent in L.A. County still require a mask, despite California’s recent lifting of the indoor mask mandate.

Still, I’m not deterred. With enough openness and inspiration, “Mrs. Maisel” is transforming me into something I’ve never been, but always yearned to be: marvelous.

Tabby Refael is a Los Angeles-based writer, speaker and civic action advocate. Follow her on Twitter @RefaelTabby