For me (and I suspect for most of my generation), it started with Clarissa and Sam. Clarissa in her patterned shortalls, half-ponytail and mismatched socks. And Sam, Clarissa's unkempt, ableit consistent, sidekick. They did it every episode. She, deliberately half cross-legged on her twin bed and he, hoisting, climbing, his combat boots sullying the pale pink pillows that adorned her windowseat. It was like clockwork, the strum of an electric guitar announcing his acscent. I am, of course, talking about the bedroom window entrance. And as I made the transition from elementary to middle school, it was all I wanted.
I wrote about it in my diary, I talked with all my best friends about it. A Sam of my very own, making the climb up the side of my house and into my bedroom window would've been the answer to most of my prayers. After all, I had freckles like Clarissa, and prided myself on being able to truly explain it all.
And then it happened. Dawson's Creek. Having just finished 8th grade, I was ripe for it. Joey Potter and Dawson Leery transformed what sneaking through a bedroom window meant. Formerly just an unorthodox (but coolest-ever) way of dropping in, it began to take on a realer show of emotion and dedication, an indication of true love. As a high school freshman, an in-depth study and subsequent performance of "Romeo and Juliet" only added fuel to the fire. The balcony scene, amidst the Capulet orchard. Ah, my heart swells. Most of my love was unrequieted, too! Oh, to have my own Romeo (any Romeo, to be honest, after all, I was a roundish youth) to profess such intense devotion for. If only!
I watched as Jenny, bruised and beaten, escaping the storms without her and within, found solace in Forrest's bed. I realized I could do the climbing, too, if I had to. I guess. True love knows no bounds, after all.
I know what you're thinking. About the endings. And you're right. Clarissa grew up weird, and Sam probably had dread locks in community college. Romeo and Juliet, well, we all know how that goes. Claire Danes' cry-face still haunts me to this day. For that matter, so does Dawson Leery's. Plus, if I'm being honest, Forrest wasn't even that cute. And can you even imagine a life with all that running? Most of my New Year's Eves have been like the one with Lieutenant Dan was, I'm not trying to continue that tradition. I'm getting too old for hookers anyway.
In the end, I never got what I wanted, of course. I've yet to have the chance to wait at my window and look longingly, waiting for my own personal Sam or Romeo or Jenny or Joey below my window. And like most desires that remain unrealized, it's probably for the best. Not to say that I haven't spent any time practicing. I've had my wistful gaze perfected for years. You know, just in case.