When I was a teenager, I thought that the Friends were the coolest of the cool.

Monica and Rachel had the nicest apartment ever (and of course they were lucky enough to be living there under the radar with rent control!), they all dressed really cool in designer clothes and the latest trends, and the six of them were such good friends. They all just seemed to have their shit together in such a serious way: cool jobs, cool friends, cool lives.

Did you know that in the first season of Friends, most of the friends were 26 years old?

Yeah. It never really occurred to me until I was watching some reruns and heard Monica say it. And I was like, “Hey, I’m 26!” And then I started to pay a lot more attention to the show.


Sure, they’re good friends, but they’re also way incestuous, what with Rachel and Ross, then Rachel and Joey, then Rachel and Ross, and Monica and Chandler, the Phoebe-Joey connection, and the list goes on and on. Like maybe hang out with some other people, guys. And before Ross is 40, he’s been married like, 18 times (okay, maybe three or four) and then he and Rachel accidentally have a baby together. Oops!

SIDENOTE: And then the baby is almost always conveniently out of the picture. Babies don’t have social lives, Friends; they sort of need their parents around.

Oh, and do any of them ever even go to work?! (And don’t try to tell me they’re just hanging out drinking coffee REALLY early, because we all know they wouldn’t be getting up at 5am, and neither would all those coffee shop extras.)

But you know what? I still love them. In fact, I think I may love them more now than I did when I was a teenager, because they make me feel somewhat normal, if not partially like I’ve got my shit together. I mean, at least I know what I want to be when I grow up and I work my ass off toward it every single day. And at least I don’t have any failed marriages under my belt yet. But at the same time, I know what it’s like to bounce from job to job, what it’s like to have a brutal on again, off again relationship, and what it’s like to have a friend who thinks she’s an AMAZING singer but is actually like, totally brutal.

SIDENOTE: As I write this, the episode where Phoebe is writing her new “novel” is playing on some random TV channel, which makes me feel like I’m a Phoebe, but I can’t lie to myself or you all: I’m totally a Monica if I’m any of them. Ugh. That was painful to admit. Who are you?

Friends. They get me. And push me every day to not become a character from a sitcom. Thank goodness that’s kind of hard to do.


P.S. If nothing else, at least I can say I never had this hair cut:


Or any of this fashion sense:

What’s up, denim vest?