How I Met Your Aunt: A Bizarre Ending for How I Met Your Mother

The finale's last scene underlined the show's oddly insular conception of friendship.
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Ted meets The Mother for the first time. (Ron P. Jaffe/Fox)

If you're looking for a reason to hate last night's finale of How I Met Your Mother, here is one: "The point of the story is that you totally have the hots for Aunt Robin," Penny, Ted's teenage daughter, informs him at its conclusion. "The story" in this case is nine seasons' worth of sitcom, and Ted's son agrees with the assessment. Dad loves Aunt Robin! The kids love Aunt Robin! There is nothing left, obviously, but for Ted to go get Aunt Robin! 

Everyone is downright perky about this turn of events. The kids are jazzed; so is their father. Yes, The Mother has died, but Ted and the kids have had six years to come to terms with this. We, the audience, may have had only two minutes … but there is no time for dwelling on the sad subplot that is How I Lost Your Mother, because it's 8:55 and that new James Van Der Beek show is about to start and, as Penny further informs her father, "It's time."

So Ted grabs the blue French horn, just like he did in the first episode of the show, and he runs to Robin, yelling up to her apartment from the sidewalk, just like he did in the first episode. She comes to the window, surrounded by her dogs, just like she did in that first episode. She smiles. Indeed: It's time.

And so, with that horn and those dogs and that first and last gesture of romance, HIMYM came full-circle. The characters' winding paths converged, finally, and Ted, we learned, will get the thing he wanted from the start: Robin. 

Put another way, though: Ted, the dad, will get … Robin, the aunt. The finale might as well have been called "How I Met Your Mother (but Then Ended Up With Your Aunt)." And, to be clear, we are not meant to find this outcome strange. We are meant, instead, to find it reassuring—the joyful, and in some sense inevitable, product of years' worth of friendship and struggle and laughter and legen-wait-for-it-dariness. The two friends had, finally, settled into each other; the show's ongoing will-they-or-won't-they resolved itself with a resounding WILL. The Ted/Robin reunion—dad and aunt, transformed into something else—was HIMYM's ultimate answer to the question at the heart of most every sitcom: What, in the end, is family? 

***

Most shows define their social universes geographically: They are populated by people whom circumstance has thrown together, physically. The throwing could take place in a bar (Cheers), in a coffee shop (Friends), in an apartment (New Girl), in an office (The Office), at a taxi dispatch service (Taxi), at a TV studio (30 Rock), or, of course, in a house (pretty much every other sitcom ever). Regardless, in the social—and, you could say, moral—cosmology of the typical sitcom, it is spatial connection that leads to social connection. 

In part, these physical spaces are plot devices that explain to audiences why this small group of people seems to be always together, and always so insulated in their togetherness. In HIMYM, the friends' go-to bar, MacLaren's—conveniently located in the basement of the building where three of the five characters live—functions in the same way that Monica's apartment (and Mindy Lahiri's ob-gyn practice, and Greendale Community College) do: They allow the audience to suspend disbelief. They sacrifice the inevitable frictions of real-world social relationships—the vagaries of distance, the misalignments of schedules—at the altar of sitcomic convenience. 

There are obvious production-side reasons for that social narrowness, too, of course: Actors are expensive. Contracts are a pain. TV programs, even in the age of the DVR and the stream and the binge-watch, need to offer their audiences some sense of stability, episode after episode. But what those constraints amount to, ultimately, are shows that embrace an eponymous approach to family itself: According to the most basic logic of the sitcom, one's family is "the group of people that situation has thrown together, comedically." So we get The Office's ironized treatment of the workplace family. And The Big Bang Theory's haphazard fusion of work life and home. And Modern Family's casual confidence that an entire TV show can be premised on demographics alone.

How I Met Your Mother had its own perspective on The Way We Family Now—and it presented it explicitly, episode after episode, with a conviction that bordered on insistence. Your friends are your family, the show argued. The blood relatives of all five characters were notably flawed: Robin and Barney had absentee parents; Lily's father was a constant disappointment; Ted's parents divorced without bothering to tell him. Families, in the show's conception, were distant, physically and otherwise; it was your friends, instead, who were closest to you—physically and otherwise. 

To make this point extra-clear, HIMYM blurred the friend/family lines, aggressively and also charmingly. Holidays traditionally associated with family (Thanksgiving) were transformed, in the show's social calendar, into friend-ified versions (Slapsgiving). From the show's first episode, when 2030-Ted first made mention of the kids' "Aunt Robin," we were conditioned to understand that these five friends were united by more than a shared physical space, and by more even than fickle circumstance; they were ongoing characters in each others' lives. They were friends who were more family than family.

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This idea of the friend-family may seem a banal thing for a show to adopt as its animating idea. In its context, however, the idea was A Stance, and a meaningful one. HIMYM was most obviously a reaction to Friends, that other hugely popular show-about-a-group-of-young adults-living-in-New York-and-navigating-life. But Friends, despite its earnestness about friendship itself, tended to treat its entire premise—friendship, the core social structure—as a mere phase in the lives of its characters. I'll be there for youuntil you get married and have babies and buy a house in Greenwich and get on with your actual life.

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Megan Garber is a staff writer at The Atlantic. She was formerly an assistant editor at the Nieman Journalism Lab, where she wrote about innovations in the media.

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