In 1972, the Army dispatched me to my first permanent duty station, to the extent that anything is permanent in the Army. I never thought of myself as anything but the generic Good Soldier: I wasn’t expecting to save the world, but by damn, I could get my bed made in the morning. And I did a pretty decent job keeping my boots properly glossy, which drew the attention of an adminstrative type two barracks over.
Donna Marie — her last name escapes me for some reason — outranked me by about a week, which meant more then than it does now. And she noticed the boots: “How do you do that?” I started to explain, but she cut me off and requested I do hers right then and there. Unfortunately for me, she was done up in the Class A of the day. So I’m crouched down low, putting some gloss on Donna’s shoes while daring myself not to look at Donna’s legs.
This late-1950s ad reminded me of that, rather forcefully:
For some reason, this ad, one in a series of such, was deemed a trifle risqué, perhaps because of low contrast: what she’s wearing, apart from the shoes and that wet-weather garment, is not all that obvious.