Hey, ‘Girls,’ Thank You For Being a (Crap) Friend!

‘Girls’ may be a perverse prequel to ‘Sex and the City’ and ‘Golden Girls,’ but it is also a faithful portrait to a bitter reality: twenty-somethings are often pretty shitty friends

Whenever I run into someone I haven’t seen since I was in my twenties, I apologize. Because when I see them, all I can think about is how irritatingly self-absorbed I was. Memories flood my brain, of how I’d launch into a whinefest about my romantic problems, my work problems, my money problems, my mommy issues, and on and on, before it would even dawn on me to ask, “How was your day?” How I’d contrive ways to get what I wanted — a ride, an invitation, a place to crash, sex, drugs, a free drink or even a meal — without considering the other person’s feelings, without considering anyone at all. How I’d aggressively flirt with someone, maybe lead her (and, at times, him) on, and then suddenly become disinterested and blow her off. Recently, when I told an old friend with whom I’d reconnected how sorry I was, she said, “I can’t remember anything you did specifically. I think we were all jackasses. We were in our twenties. It was our job.”

And, yeah, it was true. I was blown off and manipulated and had my ear bent plenty, too, come to think of it. So here I am, in my forties, realizing how narcissistic it was for me to even apologize, for thinking that my assholery made a lasting impact on my fellow asshole friends who, as it turned out, may have been just as self-absorbed as I was. Oh, it was all in good fun, right?

Well, it doesn’t look like so much fun on Girls, now, does it? At least they have their thirties and forties to look forward to, when they can pine for douchey guys like Mr. Big and trade coke for Cosmopolitans. Of course, Girls isn’t really the prequel to Sex and the City (that would have been Sarah Jessica Parker’s greatest fashion nightmare. Carrie & Co. wouldn’t be caught dead in Bushwick), no more than Sex and the City was the prequel to The Golden Girls. But it is plausible: Many of us in no way resemble, in our forties, the person we were in our twenties. At least, many of us hope we’ve evolved since then. Some of us? (The friends I had in my twenties have matured, for the most part, I’m happy to report.)

So much time had passed that I’d nearly forgotten how awful those times were. And as a result, I nearly broke up with Girls halfway through the second season — just after Jessa left because I was finding it excruciating to watch. I kvetched with a whine nearly as shrill as Hannah Horvath’s: Hey, isn’t this show is supposed to be about friendship? Why am I watching Hannah procrastinate from writing her ebook by jamming Q-Tips in her ear and have a well-timed breakdown? Why is this turning into an epic, sweeping, deranged romance between her and Adam? An unmoored Marnie is not only unbearable to watch, but if she’s not trying to work things out with Hannah, I just don’t know why I’m supposed to care about her. And why is Shosh even here? Hannah is like rubber cement, not glue, never quite holding them together because she’s congealed and now they’re bouncing off of her.

And then I was reminded of the brilliance and courage of what Lena Dunham is doing: If you’re going to render a faithful portrait of four twentysomething female friends, this is exactly what it looks like. Exposing this darkness, making your audience cringe like this, is even braver than prancing around naked — because you’re risking losing even your most devoted audience. What viewer wants to revisit the most mortifying moments of her life, be reminded that her youth was not footloose and fancy-free, and instead watch someone drag out a dusty box full of memories of yelling matches and tears and searing insults and betrayals and one-night stands in rat-infested apartments that smell like stale pot smoke, or, as Marnie’s mom said disparagingly, kimchee (if only mine did! I love kimchee) and sour milk and burning oil from the old boiler in the scary basement.

So, you have to be a bold viewer, willing to go along for the ride. And watch as they talk over each other without listening (Hannah and Shoshannah are the worst offenders). And disappear on each other (Jessa). And manipulate each other into doing what they want. And undermine one another’s confidence (Marnie).

But it isn’t all in vain: They do redeem themselves at the end of the day. They’re spoiled and entitled, but they’re not soulless, and, if we’re projecting or experiencing transference here, this comes as a tremendous relief. That’s right, we weren’t always shitty friends! We stepped up to the plate when it really mattered! When a friend calls you in tears just to talk, or asks you to pick her up from rehab several states away, as Jessa does in the season-three premiere, begging Hannah to fetch her, well, you do it. Grudges are put on hold, you pick up that phone and listen — even if you’re basking in post-coital glow with a partner who’s like, say, Adam, who’d probably like to smash your iPhone into a million pieces. Or you rent that car, and beg that same partner, the one who hates your friends, to drive hours and hours away to help retrieve your friend, who you find yourself forgiving despite your rage because she compliments your new ’do (“This haircut happened upon me at a very challenging time that you weren’t present for. And I’m glad you like it, because I wake up every morning and I question it,” says Hannah, angrily.) That doesn’t mean you don’t complain the whole way there about how boring the road trip is, how artistically uninspiring it is, how much you are sacrificing to rescue her. There’s no question: You’re going to do it!

So maybe there’s hope for Hannah and Marnie and Jessa and Shosh. If they can just hold it together long enough and get through their interminable, grueling twenties, they might be meeting up in diners and nightclubs in their forties, making amends with exes and old friends. And retiring from their life of leisure, eating cheesecake on a lanai in Florida (if the state isn’t one big sinkhole by then), humming along to “Thank You for Being a Friend,” with nary a worry in the world, and nothing left to apologize for.