What 90s Movies and TV Taught Me About the Meaning of Life (Dodging Dinosaurs to Dial-Up Dating)

   

    Is life just a series of distractions, a perpetual hunt for fun things to fill the hours until the big fade to black? It’s an interesting question—one I often contemplate between watching You’ve Got Mail for the hundredth time and debating whether to splurge on Joey’s next grooming session. At first glance, it might seem like life really is just a well-decorated waiting room, complete with a Netflix queue and overpriced espresso martini's. But let’s dig a little deeper. Is that really all there is?

    Spoiler alert: No. Life is more than that. And not just because Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks have taught us that a well-written email can change your life.

    So let’s dive in, shall we? Here are three convincing reasons why life is about more than just finding fun things to do until you die. Lessons I've learned from watching too many 90's movies and TV shows.

Reason 1: Life is Full of Existential Raptors

    Let’s talk Jurassic Park (cause I always do). Sure, it’s a movie about dinosaurs, but it’s also a masterclass in existential terror. Dr. Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum at his finest) warns us that life, uh, finds a way. Life isn’t just about the fun distractions—it’s about grappling with the metaphorical raptor that’s always lurking in the corner (clever girl). And yes, sometimes that raptor is your fear of being single forever or wondering if you’ll ever figure out what you’re truly meant to do.

    But here’s the thing: Jurassic Park isn’t just about surviving; it’s about awe. It’s about those moments when you see a brachiosaurus for the first time (or, in real life, when you witness something unexpectedly beautiful, like your dog finally learning to let go of a sock). Life isn’t just the chase—it’s also the wonder.

    So no, life isn’t just about having fun. It’s about dodging metaphorical dinosaurs, finding moments of awe, and trying not to get eaten along the way. And honestly, isn’t that better than just killing time?

Reason 2: You’re the Star of Your Own Seinfeld Episode

    In the world of Seinfeld, everything is about nothing, right? But what makes it so iconic is that “nothing” turns out to be everything. A loaf of bread that was coughed on, a weird neighbour, or a date with two-face, becomes a saga worth telling. Life, much like Seinfeld, is about those ridiculous, sometimes mundane, moments that somehow add up to something bigger.

    Think about it: your life isn’t just about chasing fun—it’s a comedy of errors starring you. Whether you’re debating the ethical implications of double-dipping at a party or spiralling over exposing your nipple to your entire contact list, you’re living your own sitcom. And the best part? You’re the main character.

    So no, life isn’t just a highlight reel of fun activities. It’s also a collection of “nothing” moments that, with the right perspective (and a strong drink), turn into your best stories. 

Reason 3: The Sopranos Taught Us That Even Mob Bosses Need Therapy

    In The Sopranos, Tony Soprano juggles running a mob family, managing his actual family, and grappling with existential dread. Sound familiar? No, I’m not implying you’re running a criminal empire (unless you count trying to get your laundry done as a high-stakes operation). But like Tony, we’re all looking for meaning amidst the chaos.

    What makes The Sopranos so brilliant is that it’s not just about the action—it’s about the introspection. Tony goes to therapy because he realizes that life can’t just be about power and gabagool—it has to mean something. For us, that might look less like a session with Dr. Melfi and more like putting on Bob's Burgers and disassociating, but the principle remains the same. Life isn’t just about the surface-level fun; it’s about trying to figure out the deeper “why.”

    And hey, if Tony Soprano can take a break from mob hits to think about his childhood trauma, you can take a break from brunch plans to consider what makes your life meaningful. Bonus points if you also have a well-stocked fridge of gabagool while you’re at it.

Life Isn’t Just About Fun—It’s About Connection

    Now, let’s take a cue from You’ve Got Mail. Kathleen Kelly (Meg Ryan) and Joe Fox (Tom Hanks) start as rivals, but their email exchanges reveal something deeper: life is about connection. Sure, they find joy in their witty banter and mutual love of books, but what really transforms them is the vulnerability and understanding they share.

    Fun is fleeting, but connection—whether it’s with a person, a dog, or even yourself—is the real point of the whole messy thing. It’s about opening yourself up, even when you’re scared. Because if Kathleen Kelly can forgive Joe Fox for basically ruining her life, you can probably forgive yourself for not having everything figured out by 35.

Sex and the City Knew Life Was About More Than Cosmos

    Finally, let’s not forget Sex and the City. Yes, Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha spent plenty of time sipping cocktails and shopping for shoes, but the heart of the show was always their friendship. Life wasn’t just about having fun—it was about showing up for each other, whether that meant helping Samantha when she got sick or supporting Carrie through her many Mr. Big disasters.

    Your version of this might look less glamorous (think yoga pants instead of Manolos), but the principle is the same. Life is more than just killing time—it’s about showing up, connecting, and finding meaning in the people who matter.

So, What’s the Answer?

    Is life just finding fun things to do until you die? No, but the fun things are still part of it. Life is about dodging existential dinosaurs, starring in your own sitcom, and maybe even taking a cue from Tony Soprano and asking the hard questions. It’s about wonder, connection, and those “nothing” moments that turn into everything. And if you can laugh along the way—preferably with a cocktail in one hand and a dog leash in the other—all the better.

    So keep looking for fun, but don’t forget to look for the deeper stuff too. As Kathleen Kelly would say, “Don’t you love New York in the fall?” Or in this case, don’t you love the fact that life, no matter how messy, always finds a way?

Stranded in Singlehood: A Cast Away Story

    There’s something undeniably cinematic about being 35, single, and living with a dog as your volleyball. It’s a story of solitude, survival, and yes, a little sarcasm. Picture me, not stranded on a deserted island but navigating the choppy seas of adulthood in New York City. My FedEx plane crash? Life’s unexpected turns and questionable circumstances that landed me here. My Wilson? A pup named Joey (and before him, Ross Geller). Together, we’ve built a life—a comfortable, predictable, dog hair-covered life. But like Tom Hanks clutching his volleyball, I can’t help but wonder: What happens when the wind changes? When the raft is ready? What’s waiting beyond the safe shores of singledom?

Life on the Island: A Comfortable Castaway

    In Cast Away, Tom Hanks’ character, Chuck Noland, adapts to island life after a devastating crash. Much like Chuck, I’ve become a master of making the best out of my circumstances. The crash landing? My twenties didn’t exactly go to plan, and let’s just say the FedEx package marked “husband” must’ve gotten lost in transit. But here I am, building my shelter, finding my food, and sharing my thoughts with someone who doesn’t talk back—Joey, my furry Wilson.

Here’s what life on my island looks like:

Shelter: Just as Chuck turned scraps into a hut, I’ve transformed my shoebox apartment into a haven of cozy contentment. I know where Joey’s bed belongs, where my takeout menus are stashed, and which corner of the couch is mine. It’s not a hut, but it’s home.

Food: I’ve learned how to feed both of us without burning down the kitchen. Joey gets gourmet kibble and I get gourmet delivery. Survival skills? Check.

Silence: Chuck talked to Wilson, his volleyball confidant, about everything: his fears, frustrations, hopes. I talk to Joey, who listens patiently as I debate everything from career moves to whether I should try hot yoga again. We’ve got our own language, one bark and head tilt at a time.

The Fear of Leaving

    As much as I’ve made peace with my little island, I can’t ignore the nagging fear of stepping off it. Leaving my comfort zone—whether that’s dating again, taking a leap of faith in a new direction, or just allowing myself to grieve Ross fully—is terrifying. In Cast Away, Chuck loses Wilson, his steadfast companion, and it feels like the end of the world. Losing Ross felt the same way. My world crumbled beneath me, and I’ve been clinging to Joey as my life raft ever since.

But what’s in the raft? Or better yet, who? When I do finally push out into open waters, what’s waiting for me?

When the winds shift and I summon the courage to leave my island, here are three things I hope await me:

1. The Cargo Ship of Connection

    In Cast Away, Chuck’s escape raft eventually leads him to a massive cargo ship—a lifeline of connection, civilization, and hope. In my life, that ship could be new friendships, communities, or even a relationship. When I step off my island, I might find people who fill the gaps I didn’t realize existed. Maybe it’s someone who loves dogs as much as I do. Maybe it’s a friend who shares my obsession with Michael Crichton novels. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s someone who’s been adrift too, looking for a fellow castaway.

2. The Treasure Chest of Growth

    It's important to take the time to look inwards and find the treasure chest buried in the sand of my deserted island. Inside? All the skills, experiences, and lessons I’ve gathered while surviving solo. Single at 35 isn’t a sentence; it’s a season. I’ve learned resilience, independence, and the art of making a killer cosmo. When I finally leave my comfort zone, I’ll take that treasure with me, ready to invest it in something new—a hobby, a business, or a relationship. The chest isn’t empty; it’s overflowing with possibility.

3. The Glow of the City

    As I paddle closer, the city skyline bursts into view, glittering with opportunity and adventure. Those sparkling lights aren’t just a backdrop—they’re a promise of late-night drinks, bustling streets filled with energy, and the thrill of diving into something new. It’s the sound of my friends and I laughing, the smell of the Halal food trucks, and the feeling of endless possibilities humming in the air.

    The city lights aren’t just guiding me back—they’re daring me to explore, to take risks, to embrace the chaos and beauty of everything waiting beyond the horizon. It’s not just a homecoming; it’s the beginning of a new chapter, brighter and bolder than before.

Lessons from the Island

So what can we learn from Tom Hanks, Wilson, and my life as a single 35-year-old with a dog?

Adaptability is Everything: Whether you’re stranded on an island or navigating singlehood, the ability to adapt is key. Life doesn’t always deliver what you ordered, but that doesn’t mean you can’t build something beautiful out of what you’ve got.

Companionship Comes in Many Forms: Wilson was just a volleyball, but he kept Chuck sane. Joey may not be able to talk, but his presence is a source of joy, comfort, and unconditional love. Companionship isn’t always about people; sometimes, it’s about the bond you share with a loyal pup/volleyball.

The Raft is Always There: The scariest part of leaving the island isn’t building the raft—it’s deciding to use it. The raft represents courage, hope, and the willingness to move forward. And even if the first attempt fails, there’s always another chance to try again.

Paddling Toward Possibility

In the end, being single at 35 with a dog isn’t so bad. Like Chuck and Wilson, Joey and I have created a life that’s comfortable, quirky, and undeniably ours. But just as Chuck eventually left his island, I know I'll eventually leave mine too. The world beyond the island might be uncertain, it’s full of possibility. And don't worry, I won't let Joey float away... 

So here I am, paddle in hand, looking out at the horizon. The winds are changing, the waves are calling, and the raft is ready. Who knows what the tide will bring? Some people may think I look lost, but I finally feel like I've been found.

The Rise of the Emotional Support Fan

    Some people rely on weighted blankets or lavender-scented pillow sprays to lull them to sleep. Me? I depend on a fan—an emotional support fan that hums like a poorly tuned orchestra and moves just enough air to make me feel alive. Whether it’s a childhood relic perched precariously on a dresser or a sleek Dyson whispering weak gusts of privilege into the room, a fan isn’t just a fan. It’s a lifeline, a bedtime buddy, a spinning symbol of control in a world where so much is out of our hands.

    Recently, I heard a joke at a New York comedy club that struck a chord deeper than I’d like to admit. The comedian said, “My ex told me her feelings for me oscillate. That’s the worst setting on a fan.” It got me thinking: is the fan’s steady presence—or its gentle oscillation—something we cling to because it provides the one constant we can count on? And why are millennials in particular so fan-dependent? Let’s unpack the cultural phenomenon of the emotional support fans, one blade at a time.

A Breeze of Nostalgia: Why Millennials Love Their Fans

    If you grew up in the ‘90s, chances are you didn’t control much in your life—least of all the thermostat. That sacred dial belonged to our parents, who were locked in an eternal struggle with heating bills and an irrational fear of central air conditioning. Summers were spent in sweltering, sticky discomfort, with ceiling fans spinning at half speed and oscillating fans doing their best to blow hot air in our general direction.

    But while we couldn’t touch the thermostat, we could claim ownership of our fans. That fan in your childhood room? It was yours. You decided when it turned on, how high it went, and whether it blasted directly at your face or gently swirled the air around the room. For the first time, we had control over something—a small, buzzing semblance of power that offered comfort when everything else felt dictated by someone else.

     Fast-forward to adulthood, and that relationship with our fans has only deepened. Millennials are now a generation steeped in economic uncertainty, climate anxiety, and a relentless stream of bad news. But the fan? The fan remains the one thing we can turn on, trust, and depend on to do its job. It doesn’t ask for much—just a plug and a little space on the floor—but it gives so much in return. It’s no wonder we’ve elevated it from a utilitarian appliance to an emotional support companion.

The Fan as a Constant in a World of Oscillation

    Back to that oscillating ex. The comedian wasn’t wrong—oscillation is, in fact, the worst setting on a fan. It teases you with a brief moment of relief, only to take it away and leave you waiting for its return. Sound familiar? Life has a way of doing that too—offering fleeting moments of happiness, stability, or cool air, and then cruelly yanking them away.

    That’s why many of us gravitate toward the steady, unwavering fan. We crave constancy, especially at night, when our brains like to serve us a highlight reel of existential dread just as we’re trying to fall asleep. The fan’s gentle whir is like a white noise soundtrack to our subconscious spiraling, a reminder that while the world may feel chaotic, this little machine will keep doing its thing.

    And let’s not underestimate the importance of the breeze itself. There’s something soothing about the sensation of moving air—a physical manifestation of life, change, and forward motion. Even when everything feels stagnant, the fan assures us that some things are still moving, still spinning, still working.

The Rise of the Emotional Support Fan

    It’s not just anecdotal—emotional support fans are officially a thing. Just look at the marketplace. We’ve got fans for every mood and budget: portable fans for your desk, bladeless fans that look like modern art, and old-school fans with blades that could double as ninja weapons. Some fans even come with apps, customizable light settings, and eco-friendly features, because millennials love to accessorize their anxieties.

    But the fan’s rise to prominence isn’t just about its functionality—it’s also about what it represents. A fan is affordable comfort, a luxury within reach. It doesn’t demand much from us, unlike other millennial staples like therapy, which costs an arm, a leg, and sometimes your dignity. The fan is there for you without judgment. It doesn’t care if you cried at an ASPCA commercial or ate cereal for dinner again. It just spins and hums and keeps you company.

A Fan as Therapy: The Psychology of the Breeze

    Let’s get a little Freudian for a moment. A fan provides a sense of control in a world where we often feel powerless. It gives us the illusion that we can regulate our environment, even if it’s just the air temperature in a single room. It’s the same reason people obsess over their morning coffee routines or meticulously organize their bookshelves—small acts of control that ground us amidst the chaos.

    There’s also something deeply primal about the sensation of air movement. It connects us to nature, to the wind, to the reminder that we’re alive and breathing. For many, sleeping with a fan isn’t just about staying cool; it’s about feeling secure. The sound, the movement, the breeze—it’s all part of a ritual that soothes our overstimulated brains and reminds us that it’s okay to let go, even if just for a few hours.

Dusty or Dyson: A Fan for Every Stage of Life

    Whether you’re clutching onto a childhood fan held together with duct tape and nostalgia, or proudly displaying a Dyson that cost more than your first car, the emotional support fan comes in many forms. Some fans are fancy, some are functional, and some are purely sentimental. But they all serve the same purpose: they make us feel a little less alone in the stillness of the night.

    Personally, I’ve gone through my fair share of fans. There was the ceiling fan that almost decapitated me as a child when I slept on the top bunk, the sleek tower one that came with me to my first apartment, and now a pretentious Dyson that also cleans the air of impurities and anxieties. Each fan has been a silent partner in my journey, a steady presence in a world of change.

    So, is the fan really about the air it moves, or is it about the emotional security it provides? For millennials, it’s both. It’s about reclaiming control, finding comfort, and embracing the small, simple things that make life just a little bit better.

    Sure, oscillate might be the worst setting on a fan—and a relationship—but a fan that blows with purpose? That’s a thing of beauty. Whether it’s an ole reliable of your past or the cutting-edge Dyson of your future, the fan is more than just an appliance. It’s a metaphor for consistency, comfort, and the quiet reassurance that even when everything else feels like it’s spinning out of control, some things are still spinning in your favour.