Homesickness, for me, is packaged as a craving for the familiar.
When the sounds of other people’s lives get too loud and my ears feel tinny from some distant buzzing, all I want is to be wrapped up in something I already know. Some people turn to plot twists and drama and surprise reveals, but those are the things in my real life that I do not want to indulge in my imaginary one. Instead, I want lines I can quote before characters even say them to reduce the inflammation of my general overwhelm.
Thanks to this “totally normal” baseline of overwhelm, I have seen all seven seasons of 30 Rock more than a dozen times. And I will watch them a hundred more times without regret.
When I slip through the doors of 30 Rockefeller Plaza, I am soothed, hopeful, energized. The smallness I’m absorbed in melts away, and life is once again large and full of possibilities. I’m a young and immortal Kenneth Ellen Parcel, bursting at my tidy seams with a zest for life and a passion for menial tasks. I’m the ravenous business shark Jack Donaghy, damnit--everything I want is within my reach and I have a closetful of good suits.
I joyfully tumble through the meta vortex of a show about a woman writer in New York City showbusiness written by a writer in New York City who is experiencing life as a woman writer in showbusiness. I pretend I’m part of it.
What’s unusual is that, now that my body is intimately familiar with the curves of everyday life, I am not spending time with my old friends. I don’t reach out to Liz for writerly inspiration, or compare my self-absorption with Jenna’s. The once-chaotic world has slunk to my side, like a peaceful kitty, and curled up next to me on the couch. And as I sink my hands into the fluffy calm, I feel like maybe I can move forward.
In my media consumption.
But maybe in other ways, too?
Next Steps: Drink a glass of water, consider making your own 30 Rock bracket, and enjoy a piece of content that you’ve never experienced before.
Are you still watching?