sometimes i wish life was like thirtysomething

I definitely caught some of the show first run, but I always found the character of Hope insufferable. I mean, I always wanted to have a kid, and understand how that completely changes your life, but she seemed the essence of the obnoxious sort of mom who comes barreling at you down the sidewalk with her stroller, brandishing it as a weapon — "Step aside or be run over — baby on board." As if being a mom made her more important somehow. I don't get that.

In fact, most of the characters in thirtysomething, at one time or another, were pretty annoying. But I did love, if not the characters, their home. I loved their broken-down but charming house in Philadelphia. For one, it wasn't New York (where I lived at the time), so it escaped the pretensions attached to life in the big(gest) city. But mostly I loved the house because it was so welcoming. It wasn't the improbable sitcommy situation of Costanza or Elaine or Kramer always coming by Jerry's apartment. It was a big, warm house, a sort of hub for a ragtag group of people who had connections to each other, some close, some dependent on inter-relationships. It was a welcoming house, uptight Hope or not. I could believe that everyone wanted to drop by for a Sunday brunch of bagels and hang out. thirtysomething was a yuppie "message" show, but the '80s were like that.

I always wanted a house, a home like that. A place where my friends and family could feel they could drop by anytime and hang out. Raid the fridge (as well as stock it). Talk about the topics of the day. Drink or just watch television. I'm no longer thirty-something and I don't live in the suburbs. I don't even live near any of my friends anymore. I'm not sure if people I used to hang with are really still my friends. If you haven't seen or talked to someone in over a year are they still your friends? Facebook helps give the illusion of that. At least with the folks who bother to send you a message or "like" your posts.

I know that there are still a few true friends out there. But I don't have a cute Gary who will cruise by on his bike in the way home from work, or a quirky Melissa who will come and dump her latest boyfriend troubles at my door, neglecting to ask how I am. I kinda miss that.

For a while, in the late '80s, early '90s, I guess I had a quasi-thirtysomething thing going with my Brooklyn apartment. I had a fairly open door policy. Friends could drop by if they were in the neighborhood. Of course the Manhattanites rarely found themselves in Brooklyn (horrors!).

What we call today my BFF, my friend Mary, was also my roomie in that Park Slope apartment for a while and then got married but lived just around then corner — we were in and out of each other's apartments and lives all the time. I remember being hit hard with a stomach bug — the kind where just getting back and forth to the john is an effort — and she came over, an angel of mercy, with juice and soup and some trashy magazines. And this was way before texting and cell phones. I do miss that.

When I lived in D.C., my cousin Ann and I made a concerted effort to see each other often. She definitely had a thirtysomething house, where friends and family felt free to swing by often — and they did. The two of us maintained a "Sunday family dinner" date, even after my daughter was born and when our schedules got hectic. Even during her illness. But Ann died about a year and a half go and we left D.C. and that way of life seems finished.

We all grow up, and that unfortunately means that we also grow apart, either emotionally, or merely geographically. We've been here in Florida a little over a year so far and I'm still finding my way socially. I don't work outside the home, and I'm needing to be on hand more and more for an aging mother. It hasn't been easy to start a whole new real-life social network. I'm gearing up for another big change, leaving a job I've held for over a decade, and I'm not sure if I will feel even more isolated when that ends, or if I will finally be able to get out more and meet some new people.

The apartment where we live is certainly big enough to entertain. There's a doorman, so the act of dropping by might be a tad more formal than the days when someone used to ring my buzzer in Park Slope and I'd throw them the key inside of a sock or glove out the window, but it's still doable. I'm always up for a Sunday brunch or just yakking about a book or a movie. I like that.

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