Читать книгу I'll Be There For You - Kelsey Miller - Страница 6

INTRODUCTION

The Sweet Spot

A few months ago, I walked into the gym, hopped on my usual machine, and thumbed the worn-out little button on the monitor up to channel 46. It was very early evening—a kind of magic hour at the gym. The place was packed, but oddly quiet, save for the whirring of stationary bike wheels and rhythmic thumping of sneakers on the treadmill. Gyms in New York City have a reputation for being scene-y and intimidating, full of athletic wunderkinds and sweat-free medical marvels eyeing each other as they deadlift a thousand pounds and do pirouettes in the mirror. On the whole, this reputation is shockingly true. But not at 5:30 p.m. At that hour of the day, all is calm and no one is judging. And every TV seems to be tuned in to a basic cable channel, as New Yorkers unwind with some cardio and reruns. That day, I walked in and saw the usual array of familiar faces lined up above high-tech machines: some folks watched Grey’s Anatomy, others preferred Law & Order. Some even tuned in to Family Guy, right out in the open. Really, there’s no judgment at 5:30. Personally, I always went right to channel 46, where every afternoon TBS ran Friends.

I’d started this routine a few years prior, around the same time I started working out regularly. I was in my late twenties, and up until that point, exercise had been the kind of thing I did either obsessively or not at all. Like most young women (at least the ones I knew), I’d thought of working out as something you did to try to look better, or to “cancel out” the dollar-slice pizza you ate on the street with your friends after five glasses of revolting wine. Now, I’d entered a new phase of adulthood. I ordered the good pizza and ate it at home with my long-term boyfriend—and not too close to bedtime, or we’d both need a Zantac. I exercised for actual health reasons, like a grown-up. It was boring and consistent, and I actually liked it. There were other things I didn’t like about getting older (like always having to keep Zantac in the house), but the gym wasn’t one of them. Because there, every evening, I could turn on Friends and hop back in time for a moment.

Channel 46 became the nostalgic escape hatch at the end of my grown-up workday. I would pedal away on the Arc Trainer, watching the episode where Monica accidentally dated a teenager, or the one where Chandler got stuck in an ATM vestibule with Jill Goodacre. I didn’t even know who Jill Goodacre was, really. I just knew she was a Victoria’s Secret model in the ’90s, and rewatching the episode was like returning to an era when both she and Victoria’s Secret were hot pop-culture references.

I’d never counted myself among the die-hard Friends fans, though of course I’d watched it. I was ten years old when it debuted in 1994, and in college when it ended. During those years it was one of the biggest shows on television—one of the biggest cultural events, period—and its enormous impact was baked into my DNA like radiation. I’d gotten The Rachel in middle school, I’d watched the finale with a group of weepy girlfriends, and if pressed, I could probably remember all the words to “Smelly Cat.” But that was base-level Friends knowledge, which was, frankly, hard to avoid having. The show was always there, one way or another. I’d find it on hotel-room televisions in the middle of the night, or hear the theme song in a grocery store and get it stuck in my head for days. Friends became an easy reference point in conversations. (“You know, Adam Goldberg. Dazed and Confused? He was Chandler’s creepy roommate with the goldfish? Yeah, that guy.”) I’d never owned the DVDs, but they always seemed to be around, either left by old roommates or brought in by new ones. When the show came to Netflix, on New Year’s Day 2015 (after months of hype), I tuned in for a hungover rewatch. So had all of my colleagues, I found out at work the next day. The true devotees hadn’t even waited until morning. They’d started shortly after midnight and watched until sunrise. I enjoyed revisiting the episodes occasionally, but I assumed I was a Friends fan the way everyone kind of was.

At first, the gym reruns were just an entertaining little addition to my cardio. Part of the fun, though, was watching it the old way—on actual television. I liked the inconvenience of it, even the commercials. I liked not being able to choose which episode I watched. One day, “The One with the Cake” came on again, and I had a thought I hadn’t had in years: Oh, man, I just saw this one. Even the annoyance was a comforting throwback.

Soon enough, I found myself timing my workouts to line up with the reruns. I knew the TBS schedule by heart, the distance between work and the gym, and the exact time I had to leave the office in order to make it in time. A few years later, I was a full-time freelancer, working from home, and it became even easier. All I had to do was wake up earlier so I could wrap up work by 5:00 or so, and I would make it to the gym just in time for “The One with Ross’s Sandwich.” By now, I could admit the truth: 5:30 p.m. had become my new prime time, and Friends was once again Must-See TV.

Let’s be clear: I did other stuff, too. I had a life. I was a writer, living in New York City. I had my own nice apartment (not Monica nice, but no one had that). I got to live in it with my very nice boyfriend, who soon became my very nice fiancé. I had my hardships, like everyone does, but I had much more to be grateful for. You couldn’t have paid me to go back and relive my twenties—especially not those early years, eating drunk pizza on the street. So why, as I inched into my thirties, was I suddenly clinging to a twenty-year-old show about twenty-something people?

I didn’t figure it out until that day a few months ago, when I breezed into the gym, turned on Friends—and it wasn’t there. Something had happened. Channel 46 was no longer TBS, but some god-awful sports network. I frantically clicked through the channels, mentally drafting an email to gym management about the great wrong they had done in changing cable providers. I looked around at my fellow rerun-watchers, expecting a row of outraged faces, but found none. Maybe I’d been wrong about the 5:30 crowd and the slightly embarrassing bond I thought we shared. Was I the gym weirdo? A good ten minutes passed as I stood motionless on the machine, absently thumbing the buttons and staring, wide-eyed, into space. (Yes, for sure, I was the weirdo now.)

In that moment, I thought of all the other times I’d gone back to Friends reruns: sick days, sleepless nights in unfamiliar hotel rooms, the day I got rejected by [insert job and/or romantic prospect]. It was a soothing balm on a lousy day—that much I already knew. But I’d also returned to Friends during periods of deep sadness and anxiety: while mourning the death of a grandparent, or waiting to hear back on biopsy results. On days like that, Friends wasn’t numbing, but comforting and warm. I leaned on the familiar jokes and unabashed sincerity. And I was not the only one. In the weeks after my little mental meltdown on the Arc Trainer, I spoke to others who said the same. Usually, it would start with my shame-faced confession: “So, turns out I’m emotionally dependent on a sitcom! How’ve you been?”

Many of my peers responded with stories of their own Friends phases. Some recalled watching it after 9/11. A lot of people mentioned the 2016 election or the 2017 mass shooting in Las Vegas. Friends was what they turned on when they just couldn’t absorb any more news coverage. For those who grew up on the show, it was a reminder of that earlier, simpler time—not in the world necessarily, but in their own lives. Many watched the show during personal low points or times of high stress: breakups, unemployment, the sleep-deprived first months with a new baby. Why Friends? I’d ask. Was it because the show touched on all those topics, but in an optimistic way? Were they seeking out that emotional resonance? “Uh, no,” they told me. “It’s just a funny show.”

These people use the term comfort food when talking about Friends. They refer to its lightness, its detachment from reality. They watch it because they can’t relate. It’s ridiculous! Six adults with perfect hair who hang out in a coffeehouse in the middle of the day? Who’s paying for those giant lattes? Friends, for them, is pure escapism.

For others, it’s something else entirely. As I began to write this book, I spoke with more people, from all over the US and the world, about their relationship to Friends. And everyone seemed to have one, even if they’d never been a fan—even if they’d never seen a full episode. My friend Chrissy, who grew up as a dual citizen in both America and Switzerland, is one of the latter. Friends, she said, was equally huge in both countries, despite the cultural differences. “For Europeans who had never been to the US, Friends was America,” Chrissy told me. I thought she was referring to things like sweatpants and not being able to afford health care, and other parts of American life that they don’t really have in Europe. Again, I was corrected. “It was the friendliness,” she told me. “Americans smile the moment you meet them. They talk to you like you already know each other.” To the Swiss, she said, American tourists came across like suspiciously nice aliens. Friends, with its high-energy humor and chummy characters, helped make sense of that. Maybe Americans were just an overly friendly bunch. Or maybe just New Yorkers.

I spoke with style editor Elana Fishman, who was raised in South Florida and now lives in Manhattan. Fishman is a diehard Friends fan, and she, too, got her sense of New York life from the show. She spent her high-school years watching the DVDs with her sister every afternoon, and while she understood that Friends was a fantasy, there was something about it that felt true. “On some level, I thought, ‘Okay, this is not at all realistic—but what if it could be?’” she told me. Fishman dreamed of going to college in New York, then starting a journalism career there. Friends gave her excitement and hope; it wasn’t an escape from reality but a glimpse into the future. Her life wouldn’t be exactly like Friends, she knew. But maybe it would be close. “[I thought,] ‘Maybe I’ll move to New York, make a best friend who has a rent-controlled apartment in Greenwich Village, and we’ll live there! And it’ll be great! And we’ll have the guys across the hall who are our best friends.’” Those things could happen. It would be pretty fortuitous for all of them to happen all at once, but not impossible. And really, only one of them mattered. “I didn’t have a lot of friends in high school,” Fishman added quietly, trailing off into a chuckle. “So, watching Friends—it was like a double comfort. I was going to make it to New York, and find that group of friends.” She laughed again. “I know, it’s sad!”

I don’t think it’s sad. I think it’s right on the money. I think it’s the very reason Friends remains one of the most-watched shows on television, to this day. A reported 16 million Americans watch the reruns weekly. That’s as many or more viewers than some of the episodes got during Friends’ first run. And that’s just the people watching it on TV. Netflix has retained the streaming rights since 2015, and since its wildly popular US debut, the company has been rolling out the series to 118 million (and counting) subscribers worldwide. In those markets, too, the Friends fandom remains huge and steady, and in some, it’s actually growing. In 2016, ratings were up by 10% in the UK, where the reruns air on Comedy Central—a channel whose primary demographic is aged 16–34. Teenagers—who weren’t even born when Friends went off the air—lie around on the couch, watching it after school. Young adults come home to their cramped apartments late at night (perhaps still full of street pizza), bring their laptops into bed, and fall asleep to an episode. And not-so-young adults, like me, watch reruns on exercise machines.

Friends has managed to transcend age, nationality, cultural barriers, and even its own dated, unrelatable flaws. Because, underneath all that, it is a show about something truly universal: friendship. It’s a show about the transitional period of early adulthood, when you and your peers are untethered from family, unattached to partners, and equal parts excited and uncertain about the future. The only sure thing you have is each other.

Cultural critic Martha Bayles calls it “the sweet spot”—a fleeting period of enormous freedom and encroaching responsibility, where friends band together in families of their own making. “In most countries, young people have neither the resources nor the adult approval to experience the sweet spot,” she writes in her book, Through a Screen Darkly. Yet Friends is just as popular with them. It is, she writes, “a chance to live vicariously in the sweet spot.” Indeed, even for those of us who had it, the sweet spot was never as sweet as it was on Friends. Our problems were never solved so tidily, our hair was never that good, and again, nobody had that apartment. The truth is, not even our friendships were that perfect. Some of us were lonely in those years, and some of our friend-families were dysfunctional. For others, the real sweetness came later. But what we all can recognize—what is absolutely spot-on about Friends—is the unmistakable, life-changing love that can only exist between friends. It is the net that catches you when family disappoints or falls apart. It is the ballast you can wrap your arms around when romance falters. Friends are the people who walk steadfast, hand in yours, through the rough patches. And then it happens—your grip loosens, the path widens between you, and one day, you look around and find you’re walking on your own, out of the sweet spot and into the rest of your life.

That’s what I realized, that day at the gym. I was thirty-three, engaged—not all that certain about the future, but no longer totally lost. That phase of my own life had been ending for a while. Over that last few years, close friends had moved away for work or gotten married. People had children and mortgages and career ladders to climb. I had a gym membership, for God’s sake, that I actually used. None of these were bad things. This next stage was exciting in a whole new way. But entering it meant leaving another, as well as the relationships I’d had there. Not the people—I would always have them. But it would be different. We couldn’t go back to being twentysomething friends any more than we could go back to summer camp or high school (and yeesh, would we really want to?). Life happens, friendships change—and change is the worst. So, no wonder I’d gone back to something familiar. Friends was a way to revisit the time in my life that was fading, slowly but steadily, into memory.

True, it was just an old sitcom. Yes, in most respects, it bore no resemblance to my own experience. But in the only way that mattered, it did. It was a show about friendship. And like old friends, it never really went away.