(Colin Douglas Gray)
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If the new HBO series “Girls” — a show about a group of self-indulgent slackers — is indicative of the experience of the average 20-something New York woman, I’d be an unemployed, spoiled brat in a going-nowhere “relationship” with a greasy-haired schlub who makes jabs at my weight, only to say things like, “You should never be anyone’s slave but mine” five minutes later.
“I think I could be the voice of my generation,” announces the lead character, Hannah (Lena Dunham, daughter of artist and photographer Laurie Simmons and painter Carroll Dunham), to her parents in the first episode, when they finally cut the financial cord after two years of supporting, as her mother puts it, her “groovy” post-collegiate lifestyle.
You might be the voice of a generation, Hannah — but sorry, honey, it’s not mine.
Another show about the plight of white, overprivileged 20-somethings — who are depicted on a park bench reading aloud from a thinly veiled version of “He’s Just Not That Into You” between spoonfuls of Tasti D-Lite (OMG! where do I sign up?) — “Girls” is about as reflective of real life as a Disney movie.
Aside from the put-together Marnie (Allison Williams, daughter of NBC’s Brian Williams), the group’s polished voice of reason, we’re unaware of the occupations of the other leading ladies. Hannah doesn’t have a job, the flighty Jessa (Jemima Kirke) only baby-sits and college gal Shoshanna (Zosia Mamet, daughter of the playwright David) is seen watching trashy TV in her frilly, pink apartment — complete with a “Sex and the City” poster adorning one of its walls — instead of at school.
The problem with this is that New York is not, and has never been, a town that extends courtesy toward slackers (although it can be pretty forgiving toward privileged young things whose parents happen to be famous artists, playwrights and news anchors). People here are forced to work hard — to shape up or ship out. The ones who flourish are those who, perhaps masochistically, enjoy — and thrive off — challenges. After all, this is a city where even the simplest chore becomes difficult — schlepping home groceries without a car, for example.
When I graduated from college three years ago during the throes of the recession and realized I wasn’t immediately going to have a job in journalism (or even a job, period), it was a harsh wake-up call, one I wasn’t quite ready to face. Terrified, on one of my last nights at Northwestern University, I plopped down on my 3-year-old Ikea couch, drank the better part of a cheap bottle of Malbec and bawled my eyes out.
The next morning I woke up with nothing to show for it except a terrible headache. Realizing that moping around my apartment wasn’t going to land me a job in my desired field, I dragged myself to the library, polished my résumé and fired off a flurry of job applications.
This is not to say my parents didn’t help me — mine supported my career endeavors in more ways than I can recount here. Still, when I arrived back home on Long Island, I didn’t labor over intangible pipe dreams like finishing my “memoirs,” which Hannah does in “Girls.” I took a more realistic approach: I continued to apply for jobs, took the train into the city to network with editors and hustled for freelance magazine work.
But I knew I needed a source of income in the meantime. So one day, I drove through Freeport, LI, stopping at every restaurant along the way to fill out waitressing applications. Was it humbling? Depressing? You bet it was, but it was better than the alternative — defaulting on my student loans.
Clueless Hannah can’t wrap her little head around any of this: In one scene in the first episode, the group discusses the merits of working at McDonald’s as an alternative to running to Mommy and Daddy for a rent check every month. But Miss I’m-Too-Fabulous-To-Flip-Burgers scoffs at this notion: “That doesn’t mean I have to work there. I went to college,” she says disdainfully.
As for Hannah’s quasi-boyfriend, Adam, there are certainly plenty of men like him in New York, if you’re looking to be demeaned and undermined. But there are also plenty of hard-working men who treat women with respect, the kind of guys who will go to the trouble of actually picking up the phone to plan a date — you know, like at a restaurant — a few days in advance and will at least feign interest in getting to know you before getting into your pants. I — and my single girlfriends — can tell the difference between the two and have no problem calling out men (or just not returning their calls) when they act like self-absorbed babies.
In the end, everything paid off for me: A week after graduation, I landed a paid internship at Entertainment Weekly, and just six weeks into the gig, I got a call from The Post — where I interned throughout college — about a full-time job. My friends had similar fates: We have careers that often require early mornings, late nights and frequent weekends. We don’t complain, because we know how lucky we are to be working in the fields we love. And we certainly don’t turn to our parents for a handout when things get tough.
christina.amoroso@nypost.com