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But it soon aired late nights on Lifetime, and I watched it like the Phi Beta Kappa scholar of secular society I had become.
Because here were characters who could teach me something. I wanted so badly to be just like them: middle-class, comfortable, seen, loved, career-driven, relationship-driven, tortured by tiny things but overall a good, upstanding yuppie trying to navigate her place between her idealistic values and what the world demanded of her. Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about “Thirtysomething” again.
I was going to have sect-choo-uhl intercourse, despite being told several times over a health class in my yeshiva that good girls don’t use condoms, I was going to date.
I was going to marry someone who was not even a little religious.
I watched “A Different World” to see what college would be like.
I watched the news to make sure I wasn’t pronouncing words with a Yiddish or Israeli accent (so much so that I overcorrected; it wasn’t until I registered for wedding gifts that I learned that the word “spatula” was not pronounced “spatuler”).
I wasn’t allowed to watch “Thirtysomething” as a 10th grader, and so the night Gary died, I was left alone in secret with no one to process it with.
There is so much flannel in this show that Hope even addresses it in Season 2.
Packing for a camping trip, she speaks dreamily of her feelings for the fabric.
She waits at the window sometimes to see Michael’s car pull in then races to the door so she can greet him. I stayed home with my older son the first year after he was born. It is not resolved, just shoved into the background until I do stupid things like this — like write a novel that was supposed to be about marriage but ends up being about divorce, like look at my present through the prism of the past, like look at my success through the prism of failure, like watch all of “Thirtysomething” in what was supposed to be an academic exercise but ended up as part of a continuing, thorough inventory of how I got to be this messed up.
I’d left my job at a start-up, and was going to return to writing as soon as he was in some kind of child care situation. each day, at which point I’d call my husband, Claude. ” In my rewatching, I heard echoes of phrases I use when having a conflict with my husband or friends. Claude stood up and raised the shades in our bedroom.
My mother, truly out of nowhere, became religious when I was 12. She and my father had divorced six years before, and now we lived in Brooklyn, in what was called Flatbush at the time and has probably been renamed something fancy. My sisters eagerly followed my mother’s path to observance.