Like Bad Boys? You Can Blame Jordan Catalano for That

From ELLE

The word obsession has gone through some curious growing pains of late, hasn't it? The noun that once meant a helpless fixation has somehow evolved into a proclamation of approval, as easily applicable to a perfect stranger's Instagram account as to a difficult-to-snag lip kit. All week long we'll be examining what it means to be all-consumed in the digital age. So if you like what we're doing, #LBLBLBLB, okay?

I was in the sixth grade when I conjured up my very first romantic fantasy. Without revealing too much about my adolescent psyche, I'll tell you that the recurring daydream involved my two crushes, simultaneous and passionate proclamations of love...and the call-waiting function. "What's that, Nico?" I'd say worriedly on line one, while Dean held tight on line two. "You want to date me, too?"

What was a girl to do?

Who would I pick?

What would they say, Monday at school?!

I used to replay this scenario over and over in my mind, giddy from the imagined dilemma. (Fast forward about 20 years and I've experienced my fair share of love triangles. I'll say this much: They are wretched, horrid affairs, ones that make you want to crawl off the face of the earth and abandon the pursuit of love immediately. They are not sexy. They do not make you the most popular girl in school.) But back in 1995, the same year that Angela Chase (Claire Danes) was warding off advances from her corkscrew-curled neighbor Brian Krakow (Devon Gummersall) while also negotiating her lust for the floppy-haired Jordan Catalano (Jared Leto) on My So-Called Life, I'd already absorbed an indelible lesson about the measure of female desirability-one from which it took me nearly two decades to disentangle myself. The goal was always clear: the harder he was to get, the more he was worth getting.

The love triangle narrative, and its many hypocrisies, continued to haunt me throughout young adulthood. When I wasn't busy wishing Archie would get his head out of his ass and pick poor, hapless Betty over pampered, haughty Veronica, I was trying to decide who I'd pick if I were Kelly Taylor-sexy egghead Brandon or damaged bad bad boy Dylan on my beloved Beverly Hills, 90210? If, placed in Felicity's shoes, I would really choose the dopey R.A. Noel over bedroom eyes Ben? Probably not. Steve Urkel over Stefan Urkelle? No chance.

I spent years under the spell of this foolish prophecy, chasing down sylphs with cigarette breath and bad reputations while stiff-arming the nice guys. And with each conquest, I devised my own system to determine whether I'd really reeled in my very own Catalano. Did he call me late at night, wasted? Point. Did he come to whatever party I was at instead of making me come to him? Another point. Did he buy me things, make grand gestures when he messed up, and show me off to his friends? Boioioing. The entire, orchestrated, almost-athletic spectacle consumed me. And with the right tactics-sort of a homemade Manic Pixie Dream Girl bit mixed with Party Girl sheen-it almost always worked. (The trick to all of this, of course, is making it look effortless. You aren't "the Jessa" if you try.)

And with every messy breakup or ghosting came another inevitable hit to my ego. I was, after all, the Angela Chase in this scenario; I never really believed that a sinfully sexy Jordan Catalano type would want me in the first place. It never, ever (and I mean this) even occurred to me that a sulking, illiterate, on-the-spectrum stoner wasn't such a catch in the first place. I couldn't believe how foolish my friends were when they called my weed-selling, fight-instigating, or overly possessive of the-moment boyfriend a "loser." I was convinced my friends were jealous. (Seriously. Guys, if you are reading this: This is what a frightfully good TV show, even one canceled after a single season, can do to our impressionable minds.)

And though I am now 31, pregnant, and married to a Brian Krakow (but with way better hair, pants, social skills), I still occasionally fall victim to the Catalano Curse while watching a TV show or movie with that recognizable rubric. Like, how does Maggie Siff's character not bail on Paul Giamatti for Damian Lewis in Billions? Of course Olivia Pope should pick the philandering president over Noel 2.0 on Scandal. Big > Aidan on Sex and the City. End of discussion. These fictional choices, these potential social upgrades in the arena of unattainable men, still get me riled up.

But when that feeling sets in-the rationale gobbling cocktail of insecurity and intoxication-I recall a heartbreaking scene from MSCL. Angela refuses to sleep with Jordan and he returns her bike in what she sees as an act of closure. After she delivers an awkward speech about their short-lived affair, he says, simply, "Okay. Okay. At least you got in some driving practice. Just, uh, don't take your turns too wide, or anything. I'm sure you won't." We hear Angela's voiceover: "Sometimes, someone says something really small, and it just fits right into this empty place in your heart," before she tells him, "Your hair. Like, how it's really soft, like in the back. I'm gonna miss it." He just looks at her, quizzically, and says, wait for it, "Yeah."

And in that moment, one I've rewatched countless times over the years, it becomes astoundingly clear that while, to her, this relationship was one of complex and enduring emotional significance, one she'll likely tell her children about, he'll probably call her Abbie at their 10-year high school reunion. Just like the first boy who broke my heart called me Danielle a mere two years after he stopped returning my phone calls. I remember standing there, dumbfounded, observing as the strobe lights at the local bowling alley made his mostly-green-but-also-blue eyes look especially catlike while he tried to get a waitress's attention. I had, in some ways, invented our connection much like I'd invented the satisfaction of that call-waiting scenario. It only took me, oh, another 10 years to stop making shit up.