Old re-runs of Ally McBeal have been on heavy rotation in my Netflix queue, lately. Can I help it if I love everything about that show? A show where people spontaneously break into song and dance, long before Glee came along and made televised musical numbers socially acceptable. Plus, oh, the sweeping views of Boston, and every time the red line train sweeps over the Charles River in the opening scenes, my heart goes aflutter with nostalgia. Ally's downtown office building that is not unlike my old downtown office building, except for, you know, the corner office views and unisex bathroom antics. Plus, it's hard to ignore the obvious: the maladroit and perpetually lovelorn thirty-something stumbling through life, searching for happiness.
And then every once in a while, there's a moment of ultimate recognition, of seeing yourself from the outside, and it's not always a pleasant sight. It's times like these when I'm reminded again of why it is that skinny people should never, ever dance: