“Stella!” Marlon Brando shouts from the bottom of the stairs. “Hey, Stella!” The pain and longing in his voice echo through my ears.
As I watched this pivotal moment in A Streetcar Named Desire, I wanted more than anything for Marlon to be shouting my name instead.

“Stella!” Marlon Brando shouts from the bottom of the stairs. “Hey, Stella!” The pain and longing in his voice echo through my ears.
As I watched this pivotal moment in A Streetcar Named Desire, I wanted more than anything for Marlon to be shouting my name instead. But Marlon was not only out of my league and deceased, his great film was released 41 years before I was conceived and 58 before I saw it.
Considering my fondness for cult classic movies, vintage clothing and radio oldies, I have always felt like I was born in the wrong decade. It seems my whole lifestyle revolves around the way I perceive the mid-20th century.
I find something charming about the simplicity of the old days. The pace of the world seemed slower and people weren’t constantly rushing around. As I zone out while walking through hallways, I imagine an era where I would’ve had all the time in the world to savor life’s most joyful moments. I frequently envision myself sitting at a plush booth in an authentic diner, wearing a Sloppy Joe sweater, a circle skirt, bobby socks and brogues, waving to men in zoot suits and knickerbockers, humming along to Billy Holiday's “Summertime” on the jukebox and watching polished Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles whiz down the streets as I order wheat toast and coffee with two sugars for the morning. Eating out at Lori’s Fabulous ‘50s Diner, which was founded in 1986, just doesn’t compare.
My obsession with everything old-fashioned doesn’t stop there. I went through a phase where the words passing through my mouth sounded like they were plucked straight from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. My friends rolled their eyes at me every time I remarked with an affected air, “I simply adore your cardigan, dahhh-ling” or “We must do lunch sometime, my dear.” At the time, I refused to conform to my peers’ use of modern slang that assaulted my ears, rubbish words like “hella” and “gangsta” — no matter how snooty everybody thought I sounded. I’d like to think I was just being classy.
Though that phase is over, I still sometimes long to converse with others the way people did on the silver screen. Gene Kelly’s line to Judy Garland, “Well, say, why didn't you tell me I was in love with you?” in the 1942 musical For Me & my Gal, have the most romantic words I have ever heard.
In modern-day language, those riveting words come out like “Damn, you are one smokin’ babe.” I live in a world where men resort to tragic pickup lines and lecherous catcalls to please women. I’m certain Gregory Peck just wouldn’t approve.
I don’t mean to sound like a hostile feminist, but I dream of the day when our male counterparts still acted like gentlemen, opening doors for us, standing up in our presence, pushing in our chairs, tipping their hats. I find it confusing that modern man believes being crude is attractive.
However, though I much prefer the fabulous ‘50s, I can admit that I appreciate the increased autonomy for women, genres of music and technological advancements society has acquired over the years. These consolation prizes have helped me come to terms with my era. My taste in music has spiraled beyond the likes of crooners into the twisted dimensions of indie, new wave, grunge, folk, rock and roll, and “all that jazz.” And after all, an undomesticated girl in the 21st century — myself — cannot possibly survive without the assistance of a microwave.
When it comes down to it, I may appreciate some modern-day perks, but I am still old-fashioned at heart. I just couldn’t survive without watching the iconic Gene Kelly skillfully tap dancing while drenched in the pouring rain or listening to Paul Anka sing “Put Your Head on my Shoulder.”