Those last four minutes of My So-Called Life cut to my emotional core in such a quick and effective way that I’m often left dumbfounded in its wake. This probably explains why I’m up at 2 am, feeling compelled to write after spending my evening in warm pajamas covered under a blanket, drinking tea, and clumsily wiping tears from my eyes.
Watching this series is such a vivid flashback for me that it is borderline unhealthy. The show aired in 1994-1995, when I was fifteen. While I was nothing like the fictional fifteen year old Angela Chase, I still felt kinship and warmth for her character. My ability to watch the show critically was probably severely stunted by this age similarity. Well that, and the raging hormones. Either way, there was very real quality to her character, as well as the rest of the cast, that I associated with people in my life. The result of all this is a Pavlovian reaction to the starting credits. Instantly, I am fifteen again, laying on my stomach in my Grandpa’s living room on Pampas Drive, simultaneously feeling awkward and sentimental and wistful.
Publicly admitting how weepy it gets me also outs me as a closet romantic. I can’t help it, though I wish I could. This romanticism can be quite destructive – having a fictious idea of what a crush looks and feels like, a distorted idea of how love is displayed, a convoluted view of what people do when they like is each other is nothing but trouble. But it does feel good to get swept away in those moments, right? I figure as long as it doesn’t interfere with healthy relationships, it isn’t all that bad.
Beyond my sentimental garbage, the quality of My So-Called Life is nothing short of genius. The tackling of very real and relevant social issues, like homophobia, single-parenthood, and homelessness represent just one dimension of brilliance the show had. The superb casting and cinematography are further reasons why I can still watch these episodes and not feel shame for the fervor I felt for the show (much unlike my sad and lengthy obsession for Deee-lite).
So, go ahead, watch those four minutes. I dare you to not get misty.
Good News. Bad News.
The Good News:
I got a 3.9 this quarter! It’s the best GPA I’ve ever had. I’m pretty proud of myself, and glad I sacrificed all those nights. I would’ve been pissed if I had no social life in exchange for mediocre grades.
And – I got into the Denmark program!
The Bad News:
I think I’m going to have to bail on the Denmark program. Between finances and trying to figure out what to do with Freckles, it seems like there are too many barriers. You may laugh, as some of my friends have, at the idea of my dog preventing me from going abroad for a couple of months. But when I asked my Grandpa if he would watch him not only did he say no (which in his defense, I understand), he suggested I have him put to sleep. There is NO WAY I’m doing that. That is cruel, selfish, and totally absurd.
The only thing that prevents me from emailing the director right now and telling her I can’t go is this little, tiny, practically squelched voice camping out in the back of my head. Her conversations go something like this:
What do you kids think? Should I do it? Should I bail? Should I tie them in a bow?