The X-Files is coming back to TV in a little over two weeks. This is a sentence I never thought I would have cause to write. I mean. It's been off the air since 2002. That should have been...it. Right?
Enter the era of the revival.
All sorts of shows are coming back, some fully rebooted, some simply raised from the ashes. Girl Meets World and Fuller House are carrying on stories with the next generation, while Gilmore Girls and Twin Peaks are, like my beloved X-Files, getting limited-run miniseries with the original cast of characters.
Six episodes. It won't be enough, but it's so much more than I ever dreamed we'd get.
Sure, I have concerns. I've done my level best to avoid spoilers, but enough has slipped through the cracks to make me wary of the direction this could go, storywise. My concerns, though, are rather profoundly overwhelmed by the giddy anticipation that's only getting stronger the closer we get to air date.
This show was a huge part of my formative years. Like, even just saying that doesn't truly reflect the extent to which this show and these characters mattered to teenaged me. For something like six years (because I started watching in early Season 4), I lived and breathed Mulder and Scully. I ended my high school valedictorian speech with "The truth is out there," for crying out loud. To have it coming back... I'm still having trouble processing it, and it's been like a year since they made the announcement.
Except now it's starting to feel real. The two-night premiere is two weeks from Sunday, and I get butterflies in my stomach every time I think about it. Yes, that's dumb -- it is just a TV show -- but I can't help it. Gillian Anderson is going to be on my screen saying, "Mulder, it's me," and I am going to hug a pillow and squeal like I'm 16 all over again.