My wife said: Every hour spent watching television takes 22 minutes off your life. She told me this while we were watching television. I almost choked on a cookie. Nearly proved her right.
Twenty-two minutes.
Could it be? She had heard this somewhere. Some study. It looked at how many hours of television people watched. How this sedentary, slothful activity affects our health. (I wanted to know what “sedentary” meant, but couldn’t find a dictionary in the digital TV listings.)
Worse than smoking, it said. What about smoking while watching TV? I wondered. Or juggling chainsaws? Couldn’t be worse than that.
Still … sobering. That was my reaction. Especially as we were in the midst of a three-night “Boardwalk Empire” marathon. Desperately slogging through an entire season of the hit HBO series on DVD. Season 2. We’re trying to catch up. We don’t have HBO. We have the Public Library instead. That means we watch stuff a year or so late. (If you watch the series and know what happens, DON’T SAY ANYTHING! I’m part Sicilian and have ways of making your life difficult.)
A couple months back, she came home from the library with the first season of “Boardwalk Empire.” She was proud of herself. “I’ve always wanted to see it,” she told me. She had that expression cats get when they bring home a mouse.
I had the look of a man who had just been brought a mouse.
“’Boardwalk Empire?!?’” I said. “What do I care about ‘Boardwalk Empire!’ Take that outside and bury it!”
I’m always dubious of my wife’s movie selections. She doesn’t have a good track record (sorry honey!) She goes to the library with my daughter and they bring home bags filled with “Scooby Doo” DVDs and movies that not only take 22 minutes an hour off my life, but also bushels of brain cells.
And here was an epic, season-long DVD that would take forever to watch. I was doomed. I thought about taking up book-reading instead. Or building boats inside of bottles. Or charity.
I sat with my head in my hand as she put on the first DVD.
“Are you ready?” she said — the little cat with her dead mouse. She snuggled in close.
“Harumph!” I said. “Just … plain … Harumph!”
Only problem is, damn thing hooked me. Hooked me right in. Bootlegging politicians in the days of prohibition? Gangsters and Atlantic City? Jazz and guns and fancy suits with fancy hats? Dang, dead mice are pretty good. No wonder cats bring them home.
We polished it off. Exhilarated and anxious for more, she got on the library waiting list for season 2.
“We’re only 16,785th in line!” she told me. “They say we’ll have it by the time we get put in a nursing home. Isn’t that exciting? I can’t wait to see how it turns out!”
So we’ve been waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Weeks, and then months. She would check the library list online and report back. “Ohhh, we’re close now! Only 84 more people in front of us.”
Eternity. Waiting on something you hate to admit you want.
And now it’s our turn. She hurried home from the library so we could get to killing out more minutes of our already too-short lives. And let’s not forget there’s another clock ticking: the library only gives you a few days to watch a season full of whiskey runners and gangsters. There are still 16,784 people queued up behind us. We have to hurry!
So we’re binging. We’re in the middle of an exhausting TV-watching marathon. A brutal, eyeball-taxing slog. Powering through episode after episode into the wee hours of the night.
“Tick, tick, tick,” go all the clocks working against us.
We’re down to two episodes left. JUST TWO! I can feel the toll it’s taking on my body, like those poor whiskey-logged livers on the show. The minutes of my life slipping away. But I don’t care. I’m too tired and fascinated and hooked. Next week I can read a book. Next week I can look away. Next week I can take my life back. But right now I’ve got to focus. I’ve got to punch through. I’ve got to keep melting brain cells while becoming one with the couch.
Say, anyone know if I can sue HBO for the 220 minutes of my life I’ve lost so far? I hear TV is worse than cigarettes.