WASHINGTON, D.C.—Due to the infinite wisdom I have gleaned from the past five and a half weeks here, I have come to find that many a life lesson can be drawn from the comedy “Arrested Development.” (A disclaimer: This might also be a result of the fact that I recently re-watched all three seasons.) If you’ve never experienced the glory of this show, read no further and go do it now. Not kidding, you’re missing out. And eliminating any possibility that we could ever be friends. Also, you won’t get any of these references.
In case you decided to read anyway, a bit of exposition As the show’s intro explains, it is “the story of a wealthy family” (the dysfunctional Bluths) “who lost everything and the one son” (Michael) “who had no choice but to keep them all”—his parents (George Sr. and Lucille), son (George Michael), siblings (Gob, Linsday, and Buster), brother-in-law (Tobias), and niece (Maebe)—“together.”
Anyway, on to the point. More often than not, I tend toward a George Michael, a little bit too worried and, let’s face it, pretty awkward. I would prefer for things to run on schedule and for them to go smoothly and without real conflict. And when they don’t, I experience the perpetual urge to want to fix them. So, how to move from this state of preoccupation to idyllic summer (and if we want to be ambitious, lifelong) happiness?
Perhaps, you say, it would be better to be a Lindsay, who seems perfectly content spending her days oblivious to complication—going shopping and making hot ham water. But I don’t so much have the clothes or the hair to pull that off. And being married to Tobias could get a little awkies. Or maybe a Lucille or George Sr., who can simply will (or hire a one-armed man to help coerce) what they want done. Seems to work out fairly well for them, but I guess I’m still a little young to be quite that bitter. There’s always the option of pulling a Buster and faking a coma to escape from it all, but I suspect that real doctors might be slightly more competent than the ones on the show.
So here I sit, mulling over my time in our nation’s capital. Thus far, D.C. has seen the worst Metro disaster in its history, the King of Pop has died (obligatory M.J. reference, check), and Congress has been having oh so much fun attempting to tackle climate change and health care reform.
And I start to think it may be best to strive for the Zen of Michael—bemusedly accepting the bizarre hilarity of having your boss sing High School Musical’s “Breaking Free” at you over the phone, the mild discomfort (which upon retelling also morphs into bizarre hilarity) of a rando making kissy faces at you on the Metro escalator as you avoid eye contact, and the mix of other emotions during those moments that make you sure your life is scripted.
Aditi Balakrishna ’10, a Crimson associate managing editor, is a neurobiology concentrator in Adams House. Not unlike Tobias, she’s going to take her actor’s pants off for a minute and pull her an-alrapist stocking over her head.
