Christopher! No: Luke! No: Max! No: Christopher! No: Luke! Chris, Luke, Chris, Luke...I can't choose! I'm only part-way through season 1 and I've already forgotten half of the numerous twists and turns taken in the romantic life of Loralei Gilmore. I've seen roller coasters and stretches of Alpine switch-backs that took fewer hairpin 180s than the dating life of the vivacious Ms. Gilmore. I never could quite decide, even watching it for the first time, which of the three I liked the best. No Team Edward/Team Jacob-style divisions here: I have love for all the Gilmore men. I keep vacillating between them like the spinning strawberry at Spring Fest! (Oh, the memories...the Spinning Strawberry of Death)
This is what happens when I feel too inexplicably tired to make it out to the gym in order to keep my pregnant ass in shape before my husband needs to take the car to drive to Reading to take a test for his BS 1/2-MBA programme that work forces him to do. And by "this" I mean spending the day eating far too much leftover chili, taking a walk outside in the crisp autumn breeze to drop bottles off at the bottle bank, and marathon-watching old Gilmore Girls episodes until suddenly my talent for faster-than-lightning speech has improved seven-fold and I can drop obscure pop-culture references with more skill than Jim Meskimen doing a Morgan Freeman impression. (Or maybe Jeffrey Dean Morgan looking suspiciously like Javier Bordem...) Now I'm debating the merits of Loralei's various beaux whilst simultaneously wondering why the hell I ever left my old brown corduroy jacket with the fleecy collar and cuffs at my mother's house. The whole reason I bought that jacket in high school was to achieve some semblance of the Rory Gilmore aesthetic.
There is a reason that no other show speaks so directly to my twisted soul.
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