The dark secret of Stars Hollow

The reason "Gilmore Girls" is so appealing isn't the sunshine and lollipops veneer -- it's the irresistible fantasy just beneath the surface.

By Cara Wall

Sep 27, 2005 | I love "Gilmore Girls." I love every minute of its quirky, brightly lit, charmingly dressed, repartee-driven world. I love it so much that, in preparation for its sixth season debut, I spent Labor Day weekend prone in front of my TV, watching the entire first season -- the only one I hadn't seen.

I am 35 years old.

I mention this because "Gilmore Girls" (8 p.m. EDT, Tuesday) is a linchpin of the WB's tween lineup. It is loved and watched by middle school girls. I know this because I used to teach sixth grade. In fact, "Gilmore Girls" was the show I most often recommended to parents who asked me whether there wasn't at least one television show in which teens don't drink, don't drive recklessly, don't do drugs, don't have random sex, and speak civilly to their parents. "Watch this one!" I told them. "You're going love it."

I thought I loved "Gilmore Girls" because it was a happy show. The premise was that Lorelai Gilmore and her daughter, Rory, are best friends; they spent their mornings drinking coffee at Luke's -- the local diner -- and their evenings eating pizza while watching old movies in their snug living room. They lived in the charmingly eccentric town of Stars Hollow, Conn., a place full of kooks who care about each other in a concrete, lend-a-hand kind of way. No one drove recklessly, Rory and best friend Lane were still virgins, grown-ups would drink without drinking excessively, everyone was well educated and very, very funny.

Sure, the facts of Lorelai's past still haunt her. She had Rory at 16. Instead of marrying Christopher (Rory's dad), she cast off her privileged upbringing, worked as a maid at the Independence Inn, and raised Rory in the old potting shed on the inn's property, thus bringing great shame to her parents, Emily and Richard -- old money, social pillars of Hartford society. Sure, she and Rory struggle with friends and with each other. Sure, their hearts are broken and, in Season 5, Rory ends up sobbing in her mother's arms on the bathroom floor after her first college crush, Logan, doesn't return her calls. But this is a show that believes the best about people. It is a show in which people believe in the magic of friends, the magic of love, the magic of snow. Rory will get up, eat ice cream, wallow and heal. She may not get the boy she thinks she wants, but she will find someone, someday. Everything will work out all right in the end.

At least, I thought that's why I loved "Gilmore Girls."

But, in the course of my weekend-long marathon, I discovered something more. There is a decadent fantasy being spun here -- a debauched, irresistible dream. I wasn't aware of it until my daughter was born, but now I can't contain my lust. I am beside myself. I desperately want to be Lorelai.

Lorelai is witty. Lorelai has long legs, good hair and fantastic clothes. Lorelai has an appealing job at which she is the boss, can set her own hours, and works with her best friend. Lorelai had her one child at 16, the age at which stomachs can still recover from childbirth without pooching or sagging. Lorelai's child is pretty, modestly dressed, motivated, has wholesome friends, and -- though she has her license -- doesn't pester her mother for a car.

Let's compare: I am not witty; I am exhausted. I have bags under my eyes and straggly ponytail hair. I gave birth at 33, the age at which stomachs never bounce back; I have a job at which I am definitely not the boss, and my best friend lives halfway around the world. My child is, of course, even more beautiful than Rory, but she cries a lot, demands to get her own way and -- if her single-minded pursuit of play strollers at the playground is any indication -- will most definitely pester me for her own car. I have a stack of preschool applications on my desk, a minefield of toys on my living room floor, and 13 unanswered messages on my answering machine. I also have a pair of parents, a husband, and a mother-in-law.

In contrast, Lorelai is free to date.

While I am fresh off the latest round of new-parent bickering, and fuming over my husband's dishes in the sink, Lorelai is on a date. While I bemoan the state of my skin and eat another pint of ice cream anyway, Lorelai is courted by Max, Rory's studious teacher, and plans a wedding. While I complain shrilly about the cost and grease-stain potential of my husband's new bike, she breaks off that engagement, leaving herself free to date again. While my husband and I lie in bed, both stubbornly pretending to be asleep so the other will have to get up with the baby at 6 a.m., Lorelai finally realizes her love for Luke, the diner owner, and in a moment of rash romanticism, proposes to him.

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