Not In My Fleabag Era
It’s an era of eras. A way to present a change in your life with a self-aware flair, if you will. Deleted Instagram for a day and put your phone on do not disturb for a span of 10 minutes? Reputation era.Trying to battle a codependency on caffeine? Matcha latte era. Thinking that Paul Mescal and Phoebe Bridgers are still together? Delusional era. You get the gist.
There’s something so empowering about the idea of rebranding oneself and referring to it as an era. It’s a way of taking ownership of your life, even the messy parts. This aestheticization of imperfection connotes various pop culture references where people find themselves identifying with the central character. Such identity clubs include: “Fleabag” era, “Marianne from Normal People '' era, or the “narrator from My Year of Rest and Relaxation” era. But when is the right time for an era to end? Does the line from era to real life tend to blur?
I, myself, have found comfort in Phoebe Waller Bridge’s character in Fleabag. She is known to wreak havoc, make bad decisions, and crack jokes at the wrong time, all the while winking to the fourth wall exhibiting her self-awareness. It becomes easy to gravitate towards her as you identify with her flaws and feel relieved seeing a female lead get things (gasp) wrong. As we become closer with these characters, their actions start to feel justifiable. Does our proximity to these characters make us justify our own wrongdoings?
“ But when is the right time for an era to end? Does the line from era to real life tend to blur?”
It is comforting to see flawed female characters in media. It is enlightening to see women get it wrong, fall in love with the wrong people, and be unsure of what to do next in their lives. Fleabag certainly portrays complexity in a way unlike others. She is kind and selfish, loud and awkward, unpleasant at times, but still remains a character we root for. The essence of what it means to be a human is captured in such a refreshing way. The essence of what it means to be a woman is captured especially in its soliloquy on women being born with pain built in.
We see Fleabag’s nonchalant façade begin to shatter as denial becomes unsustainable to conceal her deeper pain. In her exceptional monologue to the Priest, she cries out for help:
“I want someone to tell me what to wear in the morning. I want someone to tell me what to wear EVERY morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to buy tickets for, what to joke about, what not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in, who to vote for, who to love and how to tell them.”
She is in no way celebrating these qualities in herself. She even admits to having a “horrible feeling that she’s a greedy, perverted, selfish, apathetic, cynical, depraved, morally bankrupt woman who can’t even call herself a feminist.” Her self-awareness allows her to exert effort to work on herself in the final season. She finally allows herself a healthy relationship (though doomed) and experiences emotional intimacy. She mends her relationship with her sister and it becomes stronger than ever. Her healing journey finally begins and is marked as she waves goodbye to the “fourth wall.” It shows that she no longer needs to perform for her perceived audience.
Limiting Fleabag to simply her struggles denies her and ultimately, us, of growth and healing. At the core of the show, Fleabag wants to be better. By referencing being in our “Fleabag” era every time we mess up, we are denying her of that right. I am proud to identify with Fleabag, with her refreshing portrayal of the female gaze, but for reasons beyond her flaws and mistakes. My “Fleabag” era refers to me acknowledging my flaws, exhibiting effort to heal my relationships, and accepting personal responsibility without shame or embarrassment. There are imperfections but there is redeemability. There are flaws and frictions in life but there are also chances to improve them on one’s own terms. There are perils but also pleasures.
Sure women are born with pain built in, but as Fleabag has taught me, the pain does not need to be there forever.
Header: Valerie Letts
