When TV critics say “Terrible,” I say, “Which channel?” I really enjoy a great big bowl of whipped cream after a day at work: fattening, easy to swallow, no healthful benefits. I know it’s bad, but it’s a way to tune out my brain after thinking all day and laugh at the ridiculousness of popular media. I know that I’m not learning or growing or changing, I just want to unwind for a bit.
Matthew always says, “I don’t see how you watch this stuff.”
I say, “Look how ridiculous they are. We’re worried about getting our car repaired and if the dog needs surgery; they’re worried about which earrings go best with their shoes. Which is funnier?”
Critics said it was like a competition of middle-aged women to see who could wear the tiniest t-shirt. I couldn’t wait. I tuned into “Tuesday Night Book Club” hoping for “The Surreal Life” with books. I got “The Lifetime movie” with booze. I watched one episode. I was compelled to watch the whole hour because my heart ached for them so much. It was like watching a Discovery Channel program on surviving cancer—you can’t just change the station because you’re bored, you have to know how it ends.
I wanted to watch the second and final episode. My remote control hand itched and twitched with the desire to turn it back on and watch the slow motion train wreck continue to spew detritus. But I knew it was bad for me. I knew it wasn’t the bowl of whipped cream I craved and watching would only make me sad again. I resisted watching the final episode, but I’m glad the temptation is no longer there. I’m weak in the face of terrible media. And junk food.
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