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Why McDreamy’s Death Matters: Real Tears for an Unreal Person
I grew up watching soap operas. Don’t judge me. It’s what we did. It’s my generation’s version of Netflix binging, but we had to wait for each new episode. So it was an event, often shared, not on-demand.
It all started in elementary school. I would come home each day to find Grandma dutifully ironing our clothes in front of the TV. So I would settle in and tell her about my day and watch the lives of far more exciting people unfold before my eyes. It was as bonding experience. I didn’t always understand the nuances of what was going on, but then again, I did learn a lot that they didn’t teach us in my parochial school.
At university our schedules were more flexible, so the whole dorm could gather around the TV in the dayroom and watch it together. There was something so communal about piling on the worn furniture and gossiping about who we loved, and more importantly, who we hated. It was a special treat when we recruited a newbie — someone who had never before indulged in this guilty pleasure once reserved for desperate housewives. On those occasions we got to recount the sordid history of who did what to whom over the years. Granted, strung out on a timeline like that the plotline was ludicrous, but we loved it anyway and we convinced our new recruit to love it too.
