This September, Friends, the show that introduced us to a bunch of twenty-somethings struggling to make their way in the world, or at least New York, will turn thirty. Like many Millennials, I grew up watching Friends - first as a treat on a Friday night (in real time, no less) and later as a lonely student longing for the cosy sisterliness of Monica and Rachel. Despite recent backlash around the show’s lack of diversity, Friends is celebrated for its pioneering attitudes towards friends as family (although many have since said it set them up for unrealistic expectations of twenty-something friendship, to which I’ll have to reluctantly agree), and normalisation of not having your shit together.
Perhaps as I get older, what I long for more than the enmeshed friendships (I’ve resigned myself to never living opposite my best mates) is the apartments. Sure, it was always woven into the story that Monica had nabbed a relative’s rent-controlled place, but still. I turn to Friends when I need familiarity and comfort (read: hungover) and find myself instead stewing at characters who are now younger than I am, luxuriating in sprawling city apartments, dressing in designer garb (Rachel’s Ralph Lauren discount couldn’t have been that good), and holidaying in Barbados.
