If your life depended on my ability to correctly answer a trivia question, my apologies, rest in peace, good luck. Along with jumping jacks, map folding, and tanning, conditions would have to be hyper-specific—and by hyper-specific I mean rigged—in order for me to be successful in any or all of these activities.
I once cost my friends free beer and a rare first-place finish at Wednesday night trivia when they wagered all of our points on my ability to answer a final question about the U.S. Census Bureau. I was employed by the organization at the time and paid by the hour to read manuals about its inner-workings, but we missed the question. More specifically, I missed the question and was relegated back to my role as time check girl and giver of moral support.
I am waiting for the day when I will be able to redeem myself and actively willing the universe to supply one of the following categories at said moment: underappreciated movie candy, negative side effects of Neosporin, and/or Beverly Hills 90210. I may or may not have spent a quarter of my life alternating between the desire to date Dylan McKay and be Dylan McKay. This may or may not still be a struggle.
Were pride something I was in great supply of right now, I would not admit to the following, but I’m feeling inside-out these days so what the hell, here goes. While starting my morning with Dr. Bronner’s magic peppermint the other day, a particular episode of the show came to mind in the midst of a “What’s next for Mo?” reflective shower moment.
Somewhere in my parents’ home in South Carolina is a worn-out VHS tape labeled “THE Decision,” on which is a recording of the ultimate season finale of California’s favorite zip code. Kelly is faced with the choice to marry Brandon or travel the world with Dylan and his scarred eyebrow and the drama leading up to this moment is basically what Aaron Spelling used to drive the show. With bated, angsty breath, I remember waiting for what ended up being Jennie Garth’s “You had me at hello” Jerry Maguire moment. “I choose me,” she said, while handing back the ring and round-trip ticket to the beautiful boys. “I choose me.”
Of course, the decision was one to be applauded. It was a rare departure from television and pop culture’s tendency to romanticize relationships and paint independence in a negative light. What troubled me mid-lather when remembering this moment, however, was thinking about the times when ”I choose me” is not deemed heroic… when the world isn’t waiting to hear what your decision will be and the only option you have in front of you is self-sufficiency and a search for self worth. Not tickets to travel the world or a marriage proposal.
I’m finding it much harder to muster the strength and excitement to choose myself when it’s the only thing I can do right now, but I know it must be done.