The Secret Shame of Loving Gossip Girl
Oh Gossip Girl. My guiltiest pleasure. What is it about that show that makes otherwise rational grownups silence their cell phones and stare, mesmerized, at the antics of twenty-five-year-olds playing college kids?
Is it Serena Van der Woodsen’s miles of legs? (Angelina Jolie, you aint got nothin’ on this girl). Is it Blaire Waldorf’s wardrobe and lust for power (and Chuck)? Chuck Bass’ sneer and signature lines? Dan’s earnest soul-searching? Nate Archibald’s eyebrows that look like they could crawl off his face at any moment and build a dam by the river?
The angst! The drama! The scenes you hope-to-god your kids aren’t watching, or – perish the thought – emulating. Snorting drugs, hooking up in cabs, burlesque on the stage, not to mention running off to Europe at the drop of a hat to personify the word “dilettante.”
It’s all so seedy. So dark. So fabulous. And so out of reach. Most of us watching are neither rich, powerful, gorgeous, particularly young, nor anywhere near Manhattan. Gossip Girl’s world might as well be Never Never land. And that, my friends, is why it’s called trashy fantasy.