Why Full House is scary if you're 23 and live with your parents

Despite previews for the new Miley Cyrus movie attempting to convince me that Hannah Montana is the “show [I] I grew up with,” I think we all know that for a kid born in 1986, that honor is firmly in the hands of Full House. With maybe a splash of Family Matters, Boy Meets World and Sabrina the Teenage Witch. (Does ABC still do TGIF on Friday nights? I bet my parents loved that three hours of solid pre-teen entertainment at the start of their weekend.) Earlier this week I was getting ready to go in to work, like a true grown up, when that wonderful Olsen twins TV gold came on ABC Family.

It was clearly season one. I knew this because Michelle could barely speak beyond assuring us all that we “got it, dude,” DJ had yet to fall victim to her pudgy, Steve-afflicted years and I only wanted to kill Stephanie a little. Also, Uncle Jesse turned 26. Twenty-fucking-six. Seriously? He always seemed...middle-aged. In all my years watching this show, it never occurred to me that the male characters were anything less than mid to late-30s. And you know, that should make sense in the real world, given that Danny Tanner’s wife had passed away leaving him with three children under ten. Bob Saget was 31 in the first season of the show.

And I get it, Uncle Jesse was supposed to be the younger, devil-may-care, cool musician guy who moved in to help out his poor brother-in-law with three motherless daughters. Maybe I didn’t pay close enough attention back in the day. When you’re a kid people sort of fall in to about four categories. Younger than me, my age, older than me, old. And old kicked in somewhere around 25 I guess.

The actual point here is that I was slightly terrified by the idea that at an age only three years older than I am now, Uncle Jesse was this major authority figure in the lives of three young girls. And that just a few short years (uh, seasons) later, he was married with twin boys. Still living in the attic of his benevolent, if needy, brother-in-law and trying to make it as a Japanese rock star, but still. Holy responsibility, Batman.

If I were Danny Tanner I would have a two year old right now. And also a wife eight years away from being killed by a drunk driver. And a penis. Anyway. I would be freaked out by that.

Shit, a quick Google search and subtraction (I did math, you all. You’re welcome.) just told me that John Stamos was actually only 24 when he started Full House. That only gives me one more year to get a hair obsession and a hit TV sitcom.

Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name. But sometimes they're afraid to use it.

Growing up in small town Iowa—or small town anywhere—you learn early on to perfect the purposefully vague yet friendly greeting. Maybe that’s why the Midwest has such a reputation for being heavily populated with gregarious, overly friendly residents. We’re terrified we are supposed to know who you are and your mother’s maiden name and even more scared that we will offend you if we’ve forgotten. In Iowa, it is better to smile and greet everyone like a long lost cousin, just to be on the safe side.

I just came from our local grocery store where I was checked out by someone I know was a year ahead of me in high school. And middle school. And those wonderful years from kindergarten through sixth grade. I know his name. I know who he married and how many years ago. I know what he drove when he turned sixteen. I know that he has a record of petty crimes leftover from those years right after high school. (There were under 400 people in my entire high school. I could name them all.) But I had no idea if he would recognize me. So I left my greeting generic but friendly enough should he decide to acknowledge our connection, if he even remembered me.

It’s at times like this, when you’re standing in line to pay for ground beef, bananas and beer, that small town life gets awkward. I don’t recall ever talking to this guy when we were in school together. Although I’m sure we were at the same parties from time to time, our lives just didn’t intersect. We took different classes and had different friends. We lived our lives parallel to one another without question. It’s the same way with the girl from the floral shop I use for deliveries at work, the waitress at any number of local restaurants, the guy who came to fix our wireless network at work, the list goes on. But I always feel this urge to start up a conversation, just so they know that hey! it’s Jess, we went to school together! I rarely do. I’m terrified they won’t remember and that I’ll look like this stalker girl who sits looking at her yearbook each night surrounded by my five cats. I don’t. Yet.

I figured when he rang up my 12-pack of Bud Light without asking for my ID he knew exactly who I was. And then I felt rude. I don’t know why, I smiled at him, said hi, asked how he was, totally acceptable exchange with a simple acquaintance, right? Friendly without being creepy, I think. But I guess I needed him to know I knew who he was so he wouldn’t think I was a bitch. I spend a lot of time trying to correct my high school legacy of bitchiness. Next time I’ll greet him by name.

2nd bad decision that year: entering my roommate in a baby oil wrestling contest.

My freshman year of college I made some less than stellar decisions. One of these involved abusing Johnnie Walker Blue Label by quickly downing a healthy dose in shot form. I simply didn’t know any better. My previous drinking experiences at the time were more for purpose than pleasure. More of a “drink as much as you can as fast as you can” philosophy for a few reasons: it is fun to be drunk, we were afraid of being caught by the RAs who made their hallway sweep a little after 9 pm and if we weren’t good and liquored up before heading downtown we were SOL unless someone used their homemade fake ID to buy drinks at the bar. Needless to say, I didn’t have a lot of experience with alcohol that didn’t come in a plastic bottle. We kept our alcohol on the floor behind the TV in my dorm room. We used those popsicles that come in plastic sleeves as ice cubes because nothing was ever refrigerated. Our occasional splurge was a bottle of Admiral Nelson, the lowly bastard cousin of the good Captain. My friend once lost her hamster in her dorm room, never to be found again, but we never misplaced a bottle of alcohol. I think there is probably a whole colony of hamster/rat half-breeds skittering around the duct work of our old dormitory.

I wasn't drunk...but I did fix a drink after this.

I have this friend that just gets me. Or at least laughs even when she can’t comprehend why I say the things I say. Probably because she has a fair amount of ridiculous in herself and understand that not everything has to be appropriate or make sense. This friend, Kelly, and I, along with 3 of our other girl friends are headed to Kansas City in April to see Britney Spears perform for the second time since high school. When we went the first time, Kelly single-handedly started the wave throughout the arena. She’s that sort of girl.

The other day we were texting back and forth about the upcoming Britney pilgrimage:

Me:

I don’t care as long as I get to hold hands with Britney. That’s totally going to happen, right?

Kelly:

Yeah, no sweat. I talked to Brit last night actually. She also said she really wanted to make out but has had a cold. Sorry Jess.

Me:

Damn. Well I should think if she takes some vitamin c tablets she will be better by April.

Kelly:

Oh yeah. I forgot that’s a ways.

Me:

Yea I think she’ll be good to go. Because it’s probably like when you have a hot date planned and then realize, shit I’ll be on my period then, no nooky. So you jack around with your birth control so you’re all clear for hot sex. It’s just like that right?

Kelly:

I can’t believe all that stuff just came from you. That sounded like what a teenage boy thinks a girl would say.

Me:

Hahahahaha I wondered what your response would be. I’m laughing and crying now.

Kelly:

Are you drunk again?

I probably won't catch that if you throw it at me. And that's okay.

I was exactly two minutes into my Wii Fit workout this afternoon when some guys showed up to work on some of the yet-to-be-finished parts of the house outside. I was in the middle of some ridiculous exercise that involves getting down on all fours and lifting opposite arms and legs into the air and holding them there for awhile. It’s sort of a compromising position. And we sort of haven’t bought curtains yet. Anywhere. Peeing in this house is an experience in exhibitionism, but that’s a different story.

I have always been supremely self-conscious when it comes to partaking in any sort of physical activity, mostly because it involves a lot of flailing and falling and not a lot of prowess on my part. I don’t know how many gym classes I got through by faking illness or a sprained ankle, or by just standing at the back of the gym with a scowl on my face and my arms crossed. Those days of forced physical activity were so awful for me for one reason. I was not used to not being the best at everything. And because I made them awful, so two reasons, I guess.

I had the same attitude with sports as I did with middle school band: this was not my idea, I am not good at it because I’ve never done it before and if I don’t try I’ll have a reason for sucking. That reason will be apathy. Really sound logic, I think.

I developed this fear of—well, of what I don’t really know, participation in group activities maybe? public humiliation?—at an early age. I vividly remember my mother’s failed attempts at getting me to join the local t-ball team when I was about six years old. I remember sitting on the bleachers outside of the field during practice sobbing because the horror! of t-ball! and dirt! and my friends! and possibly sweating! Realistically, I remember not wanting to play because my town team was not the town team my regular friends were on. (I went to a small school comprised of several smaller towns and, alas, did not live in the same town as my beloved friends. Most specifically my friend Jamie.) Even though I knew these other little girls, they were not MY girls and I was not! comfortable!

Not until a few weeks ago did I learn the rest of that story. That my mom had forced me to t-ball practice at least three times, each time beginning with a car ride to the field a mere mile from our house during which I ensured her that I would just sit and not actually play and that I did not want to go. What can I say, when I wasn’t busy sobbing I was a fairly self-actualized and rational kid. After the third failed attempt, Dad told Mom that perhaps she couldn’t coerce me into playing t-ball just because she wanted me to play. That nothing in my six years of life had ever indicated an intense desire to hit a ball off a rubber T and run around in a circle in the dirt. And Mom caved and the t-ball related crying came to an end. Don’t worry, there was still much more crying about other atrocities afflicted upon me. I was a self-actualized, rational child who cried a lot. And that crying part really only ended a few years ago. Now I just tear up.

My disinterest in all things athletic carried over into my brother’s pursuits also. I spent years going to Nick’s games of all kinds, always with a book. I sat during soccer and baseball games reading about the adventures of the girls in The Babysitters’ Club, completely oblivious to the boys four years my senior on the field. This wasn’t much of a surprise to anyone, as I also took a book with me to every restaurant we went to for a good portion of my elementary and middle school years, until I realized that there was often conversation going on at these meals that could provide me with interesting information if I just looked up from the pages every once in awhile. Who knew that talking to people could be as entertaining as reading about people talking to each other! However, I think I took it up a notch when Nick was playing middle school basketball. I spent every game of Nick’s short basketball career facing the wall. I figured out a way to sit on the bottom part of the bleachers, where most people put their feet (there is surely a name for this part but I don’t know it and I’m too lazy to google) and face away from the court in order to prop my book up on the seats in front of me. I was that lazy that I couldn’t hold up my own book. To be fair, Nick wasn’t a particularly talented basketball player and so my disinterest could have been interpreted as a snub to the coach since, you know, Nick didn’t even get a jersey for the away games. But really I was just a nerdy bookworm.

I still am less than gracious when trying something for the first time. I’m of the “deride yourself before others do” school of thought when it comes to trying to learn things. It’s like this, I know I’m not good at those things I have tried, just let me believe that there is a possibility I could have untapped potential as a naturally gifted tennis champion. Or gymnast. Or putt putt golfer. And please, for the love of it all, do not try to coach me or assure me that I’ve “almost got it” or that it was a “really nice try” or “that’s okay!” I know I’m bad, I realize that I let that volleyball hit me square in the face rather than try and set it or bump it or spike it or whatever. And yes, that did hurt. But do not offer me pats on the back and words of encouragement. Because while I am not physically gifted, I have the gold medal in snideness.