"The Existential House of Brady"

by A. McClain

I am at the age now that when someone askes me how old I am, I have to think
for a minute, even do math. I just don't give it a lot of thought. I usually
answer them with a question: Do you want my outer age or my inner age?

My outer age is the one on my driver's license. It's the number that keeps
track of my time here using clocks and calendars, all of which are manmade
devices to control what it ultimately uncontrollable. My inner age is more
important. It's how old I feel on the inside, and that number has been stuck at
19 since I was, well, 19.

My left knee feels about 45, and my lower back is basically however old Ed
Asner was when he was on "The Mary Tyler Moore Show." That's right, my
back is Lou Grant. But inside, I'm 19.

I'm at an age now that, I must admit, I once saw with dread. I say that with
embarrassment now. As a young man, I always felt like I was a bit more
enlightened than most. I memorized Longfellow and passages of Shakespeare.
When I watched "The Brady Bunch," I wasn't just watching a sitcom. I saw
nuanced metaphorical layers addressing the human condition.*

Oh, yes, there is more than meets the eye beneath the mustard-yellow veneer
of this 1970s blended family. Behind those paneled walls, a keen observer will
see more than a split level suburban life, an entire subfloor of metaphor and
meaning lying just beneath the orange shag carpet.

Greg Brady, in particular, went through some heavy, existential soul searching
in Season 3, Episode 18, for instance. Greg loses a bet that he can do twice as
many chin-ups as his younger brother, Bobby, and has to do whatever Bobby
says for an entire week. Greg learns a valuable lesson in the folly of hubris.

Jan, the middle daughter, carries a deep-seated angst one might easily
associate with Joan of Arc. And Marcia, the oldest Brady daughter, learns in
Season 1, Episode 4, that scuba and karate are the most popular classes at
her high school, but she really wants to take ceramics. She must then face
the life-altering choice of following the crowd or being her own woman.

Even Alice, the family's housekeeper, cook and confidante, must wrestle with
what it means to be human. She likes Sam, the butcher, for instance, and
they've talked about getting married, but she tells him the Bradys need her.
Alice denies herself happiness so Mike and Carol Brady can better cope with
a house full of kids and still enjoy their carefree bedtime reading every night
in their freshly laundered pajamas.

All that said, your outer age doesn't care how old you feel on the inside. Your
outer age always wins, as if to say to us, "Feel as old as you want to. No one
can be 19 forever, and I will have the last word. Now, go enjoy your cake."

* See "The Existential House of Brady: A Comparative Analysis of 'The Brady
Bunch' to Homer's 'The Iliad' and 'The Odyssey.'" Doubledown Press, 1987,
pp. 102-112. OK, this book doesn't really exist, but it should. It should
totally exist.

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