I didn’t watch TV for thirteen years.
I’m not against watching television. I love television. As a kid, I watched plenty, and can still hum the jingles from even the most obscure TV sitcoms. (Love, Sidney anyone?) My nights revolved around which shows I’d watch. TV was so central in my life that banishing it from me was the harsh punishment that my parents doled out when I misbehaved. Back then, I took "Must See TV" very literally.
But for the thirteen years that I lived in New York City, from 1994 to 2007, I was not committed to one single show that would require me, in the pre-DVR era, to actually stay home to watch it, a fact I find embarrassingly unimaginable right now.
I’m not saying that I never flipped on the tube to check out Jon Stewart, or watch Seinfeld reruns while getting ready for bed. I even recall a flu-ey weekend when I was glued to 24 hours of Lifetime movies, which morphed into one giant afterschool special which might have been named My Baby’s Father Made Me an Anorexic Killer, starring Meredith Baxter Birney or Tracey Gold. Often, I simply had the television on as background noise to my single life.
And it’s not that there weren’t some quality programs on during those years: water cooler talk at work ranged from Tony Soprano’s psychotrauma (a gangster with feelings?) or Carrie’s outrageous styles on Sex and the City (a Manolo-what?), but I found that I was proudly, maybe even a bit smugly, oblivious to these characters’ latest foibles.
The only thing I was committed to was finding someone. In my mind, this required me to be out every single night. After all “Mr. Right was not just going to swoop into my apartment,” as my mother liked to remind me.
I treated going out like it was my job, and like any job, it took its toll. Television began to represent all that I desired for my life: companionship, comfort, and security. I wanted the luxury of being able to sit at home and watch TV without the anxiety that I wasn’t out doing all that I could to find my mate.
So I went out. To bar crawls and dance clubs and movie screenings, in my twenties; to dinners with friends at swanky restaurants, fundraisers with catchy names like “Purim Palooza,” and wine tastings, in my thirties. I joined the boards of several philanthropic organizations and attended meetings several times a month. I took a watercolor painting class, went to Spain to partake in a creativity workshop, and attended lectures at the 92nd Street Y. I signed up for trips with other singles to Israel, Budapest, and Prague. I was too busy cursing my singledom to realize how rich my life had become.
Now, three years later, I have a husband who is kind and caring, and a one-year old son who has transformed me into one of those gushing, annoying moms who think their kids are geniuses (though really, he is brilliant). We just bought a lovely house on a cul de sac so that when Emmet is older, he can ride his bike in the street. I’ve made some really cool girlfriends out here. I feel blessed in so many ways.
And once we put Emmet to bed, we watch a lot of television. Just like I always wanted. To be fair, I consider most of what we watch to be creative television with good writing: Lost, 24, 30 Rock, The Office. (OK, I am mildly obsessed with The Bachelor too). I have found commitment in my life: to my husband, my son, my three stepchildren, and about eight television shows. But I wonder: shouldn’t I be out taking classes or attending lectures? Volunteering on committees? Don’t I want to set an example for my son of how to lead a rich and stimulating life?
Thank goodness for DVR.
