The Real Gateway Drug

I have met the enemy.

I originally hoped that this enemy might be a friend. I hoped the relationship would give me a little relaxation, a change of pace, an expanded view of the world. But no. This enemy skillfully exposes and exacerbates my worst qualities: lack of discipline, emotional numbing, over-eating, junk food consumption, procrastination, and sloth. I stay up late, get up later. My brain and my tongue feel fuzzy. My healthy routine, assiduously and mindfully developed, is a thing of the past.

I’m talking about my new TV. The purchase was a venture to experience unknown and neglected popular culture, to gain conversational gambits, and familiarize myself with what other people were talking about. I also thought it might help me avoid making creative messes in the evening when the result was likely to be only a mess.

At first, nothing changed. I was unused to watching or streaming on a regular basis, and I was a bit intimidated on the (turned-out-to-be-easy) technology front. My first efforts to find programs I liked were fruitless. There seemed to be a surfeit of “the worst of humanity” programs. They were easy to turn off. I don’t need those; I can watch the news if that’s what I want.

Then I had three weeks of isolation due to some health conditions. Three weeks of my body expending energy to heal. I needed naps, which I took with abandon, gratefully. I couldn’t marshal the energy to do anything but laundry and take care of my basic needs. That was the first time the enemy invaded my defenses.

I knew I wasn't going anywhere the next days so it didn't matter if I became molded to the couch. It didn't matter if I stayed up late because I wasn't going anywhere and no one was coming over. It didn't matter if the house was a mess; my minor annoyance with the state of the place was washed away by the tides of mind-numbing television.

It wasn’t that I’d never ever streamed or watched a series. But it was usually when I visited out-of-state friends and family that I became hooked on whatever they were watching. Savvy consumers, they had good taste. Years ago, it was Downton Abbey. In the past three or four years I thoroughly enjoyed Schitt’s Creek, Lucifer, and some seasons of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, introductions all courtesy of friends and family. But they, when it came to their bedtime, got up and stretched and said, “Time for bed!” I was moderated by their habits. Even if they re-watched a season so I could enjoy it, it was only two or at most three episodes an evening.

On my own, I came to know what binge-watching was. Lately, I binge-watched The Night Agent (10 episodes) and then Designated Survivor (53 episodes). Whilst visiting a friend in Florida a couple of weeks ago, we started watching Only Murders in the Building. I came home and finished watching Season One and then went on to Season Two (20 episodes total).

Between my recent mild but annoying health occurrences, along with the week trip to Florida, and then taking three days to watch the rest of Only Murders in the Building, I have now not exercised since March 17. Three weeks were excusable. Maybe even the next few days. But now it’s been forty-four days.

I had options. At any point I could have taken a walk or gone to the Y; or taken out a DVD for easy yoga, dance, or strength training.

It’s that all or nothing mindset that I sometimes adopt for a while. Along with the shoot-yourself-in-the-foot scenario.

Staying up late to watch “one more” episode naturally means that at some point (or two or three) I will make my way to the kitchen, about fifteen steps away from the sofa, to eat calories I don’t need. Even if I have only healthy foods on hand, I find a way to add calories to them. I make a mess. Popcorn explodes from the hot air popper not only into the capacious bowl but onto the counter and floor. I melt butter in the microwave and the spatter cover conveniently falls off, so then there’s the microwave to clean. When I finally decide to go to bed, it seems too much trouble to walk that same fifteen feet to at least put the popcorn bowl and drinking glass in the sink. I leave cleanup for the next day.

Going to bed late means that I then don’t get up at my rational preferred time. When I get up late, I feel like the day is already wasted, so why try to do something productive? And even if I get eight and a quarter hours of sleep, my optimal amount, I don’t feel rested. It’s hard to motivate myself to do anything. I drink more than my usual amount of caffeine to get moving. This contributes to staying up late. Might as well turn on the TV for that next episode.

I ignore the voice that says, “You’re going to regret this. You know it takes months for you to feel the benefits of exercise, but only a couple of weeks to lose them.”

I ignore the voice that says, “You know you want to finish that book, and you need to work on it!”

I conveniently forget all my goals. Long term, midterm, short term. All. And I isolate.

And then I sink into wishful thinking mode, “If only I had a significant other, they would help me with this.” Ai, ai, ai. No good comes of going down that road.

I watch TV to view some make-believe crisis that never seems to resolve, while I ignore my own minor but growing crisis. Ironic.

Well, as anyone will tell me, forty-four days is not the end of the world. I can start again. And I will. 'Course I will. I'm an adult. I can adult.

After I watch one more episode…