About once a year, without warning, I get this aching in my bones. A restless energy that whirls around and whispers, “Gilmore Girls. It’s time for Gilmore Girls.”
And just like that, I start Gilmore Girls again.
I’ve watched Gilmore Girls so many times I can point out the smallest of errors, the tiniest of anachronisms. “Oh that girl in the pilot at Stars Hollow High? Yes, later she plays Tristan’s girlfriend at Chilton and goes by a completely new name,” I guffaw to myself, since no one else ever has or ever will care.
But I care.
I care about every last Tristan girlfriend, every odd Macy Gray choice, every, every, every second of Adam Brody time.
I know it all. I feel it all. It’s all part of the Gilmore Girls canon and part of me.
As I watch the show now, my heart beats a little faster. It doesn’t matter that I can quote huge sections of every abnormally-long script, I still brighten at the thought of watching it unfold.
It’s the first time every time.
Make that into a love song, someone.
While the episodes progress I’m taken back to former versions of myself, the Jills that watched the show in real time, who lived and breathed for Tuesday nights in Stars Hollow.
There’s Post High School Jill who sat on a lawn outside her best friend’s cosmetology building discussing Dean and Jess for hours, avoiding her own impending reality.
There’s Freshman Year of College Jill who went home every weekend to a boyfriend who had recorded the latest episode on VHS for her. A boyfriend, who, maybe, secretly, sort of liked the show himself.
I’m sure of it.
There’s the Jill who cried over that boyfriend while a television screen flashed in the background.
The Jill who browsed the University of Utah’s directory for men named Gilmore.
The Jill who watched the series finale on the East Coast because her stupid family had stupid moved to stupid Nowherseville, Kentucky.
Oh gosh, there’s even the Jill who turned down a Tuesday night date because of Lorelai and Rory.
She was a real thing, that Jill.
A peach, too.
On and on and round I go through Gilmore Girls, my adolescence and early adulthood swirling behind me, until I find myself today in The Marshmallow, pulling out those well-loved DVDs and curling up to the comforting sounds of Carole King.
I feel it all.
All the past Jills, all the loneliness and heartbreak and wanting of something that can’t be defined.
Every single time I watch Gilmore Girls,
I still feel it all.