I feel old. I realize that’s a ridiculous thing to say — objectively, I’m a very young person. I’m 21, my skin is smooth (and still as oily as a teenager’s); I know what Yik Yak is; I can guiltlessly indulge in late-night pizzas without worrying about my jeans fitting the next day. I watch young-person TV comedies that my dad would never really understand, like “Broad City” and “You’re the Worst.”

But I won’t be 21 for much longer. On the morning of Oct. 12, the day this column will be published, the clock will strike 10:38 and I’ll become a 22-year-old crone. I’ll officially be older than the majority of my friends (many of them can’t get into bars yet), and I’ll officially be older than my father was when he got married. Twenty-two is a magical age, when many people get their first real job and move to a real city and meet real-adult-friends who drink real cocktails instead of cheap vodka with vanilla coke. I won’t reach any of these milestones in my 22nd year — I’m planning on going to graduate school, so I’m looking forward to another six years in a college town, waiting to have sufficient degrees for my life to actually start.

In the midst of my quarter-life crisis, I’ve gotten really into FXX’s “You’re the Worst.” I was a fan when it first aired in 2014, but something always kept me from connecting emotionally with the show. Objectively, I was not “the worst.” I was a 20-year-old Midwestern girl who had never done drugs or thrown herself into a crazy, toxic relationship.  None of this has changed a year later, but “You’re the Worst” has, an almost imperceptible bit. The show has the same biting wit and fearlessness and flawed characters that it always has, but with every week and every new episode, “You’re the Worst” pushes its characters further out of their immature idiot bubbles and into the real, grown-up world.

In the second episode of the season, “Crevasses,” Gretchen decides she’s sick of picking her outfits out of a black plastic garbage bag in Jimmy’s apartment; she would like a drawer in Jimmy’s dresser and for him to acknowledge the fact that they are actually living together and sharing that space. She boldly states that she’s going to “Towels & Things” to buy some stuff that she didn’t steal or scam her way into possessing. She is going to be a real human who buys towels at a store, goddamn it.

Except she can’t do it. When Gretchen arrives at the store, she freezes a few feet from the door. She makes several attempts to walk inside, but immediately reroutes to the same spot she stood in a few minutes ago — it’s like she’s on the high dive at the town swimming pool, and she suddenly remembered that some kid named Andrew did a belly flop off the high dive once, and he said it really hurt. Gretchen’s eyes show the familiar terror of a little kid who is realizing that this thing that is supposedly fun is actually scary as hell. She has to decide whether it’s worth it to just jump off and get it over with or to descend the ladder, rung by awkward rung.

I’ve never had trouble buying things at a home goods store, but this scene was painfully relatable to me. Every time I open up the website for a master’s program application or the Word document for my thesis proposal, I snap my computer shut and leave it in my room for a few hours. Maybe if I ignore the problem and just leave things undone, I’ll never have to step up and actually do them. Being an adult is scary, because you have to make that conscious effort to start, and then somehow find the motivation and fearlessness to complete the task. Gretchen wasn’t ready yet, and I’m not quite there either.

In another episode, Gretchen decides to throw a house party at Jimmy’s, and invites the crew of girlfriends she knows are always down for a crazy night. But when they arrive at the parties with babies and AA chips in tow, she realizes how much has changed in the three years since she’d last hung out with them. They’re real adults with responsibilities and real lives to go home to; their days of wild nights and cocaine are behind them. Meanwhile, Gretchen is stuck in the twilight zone of her early 20s. While she desperately searches for an age peer who still has the same priorities she does, she realizes that Jimmy, her live-in boyfriend, might be the only one who’s still there with her. And that’s fucking terrifying.

The past few installments of “You’re the Worst” have ended with Gretchen sneaking out of Jimmy’s house in the middle of night, carrying only her jacket and a burner phone. I can’t guess what Gretchen is up to, but I know her behavior has something to do with the way she feels trapped by where she is in life.

Sometimes, I want to do the same. My friends who are already 22 have jobs and plans; I feel like there’s some threshold to adulthood that people cross on their 22nd birthday, and as I get closer and closer to it, I realize there’s no way I’ll make it over in time. I don’t write my own checks. I never learned how to drive. I still haven’t learned any marketable skills aside from being good at turning essays in on time. But when I watch “You’re the Worst,” I feel a little better about my situation, because I can see that other people are right here with me. There’s something valuable about having company in your misery, even if that company is fictional.

My dad, a fellow TV fanatic, has been recommending “Married” and “Togetherness” to me for the better part of a year. For him, these are comedies imbued with pathos and a real sense of truth, a humor born out of middle-aged malaise that hits him in just the right place. They are also “the funniest shows on TV,” according to someone who has never seen “Broad City.”

I tried watching “Togetherness” because I trust my dad’s good taste, but I just couldn’t relate in the same way. It was funny, but it relied on an emotional connection I just couldn’t make, because I haven’t been 40 years old yet. I haven’t felt the same kind of nostalgic ache for youth or mourned the decades I’ve already spent, and I’ve never suffered a nagging spouse. And that’s OK. One of the best things about living in this time of “peak TV” and having hundreds of quality shows to pick from is that there’s always somebody on a parallel track to you, someone you can follow and laugh at and think about after the show ends. There’s a point of connection for nearly everybody; TV offers points of view from a broader variety of races, cultures, sexualities and socioeconomic statuses all over the spectrum.

The show I’m connecting with at the moment is called “You’re the Worst.” Should I be concerned about what this says about my personality? Probably. But a Hulu subscription is cheaper than therapy, and I’m really enjoying this season. This show is made for lazy old babies like me, so shut up and let me have this.

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