My lovely fiance was flipping through a "Woman's mag", a fashion oriented one with a bit of gossip and sex advice thrown in for good measure. She discovered a gruesomely, fascinating article. If we'd been on the freeway, and an accident had been this grisly we'd have felt guilty for slowing down, but we'd have slowed down.
The article featured women whose husbands were fighting in Iraq, you know, for freedom and stuff. These women, who spent every day wondering if they'd get their husband back or a small pension and a folded up flag instead were invited in to the studio to try on dresses that they could never afford to own no matter how many husbands they lost. They were made up and lit well and photographed all pretty and glamourous and sexy even.
It reminded me of the old TV show Queen for a Day, where poor housewives told of their hardships. The one whose life was deemed the suckiest got a washing machine.
Looking at these women, standing in designer dresses, next to almost teary eyed, big smiling stylist, I had to wonder, if one of their husbands does die out there in the desert, do they get to keep the dress?