Hate to love my TV

We all know these people. These purists who stubbornly refuse to own a television. I’ve long been baffled by and secretly envious of their lives. I picture their evenings spent curled up on the couch under soft lamplight clutching a warm cup of chamomile tea, flipping the pages of a classic, soft jazz playing in the background, stopping periodically to discuss something with their partner who is equally engaged in some mind expanding or productive activity. Maybe they’re knitting or practicing an instrument or writing poetry. I’m sure they’re doing a better job of catching up with family and old friends. I think, hey, that could be me. Hell, I want it to be me, if only it weren’t for that time-sucking, brain cell-killing idiot box in the corner of my living room. My better self does not own a television.

But my less better self loves our television. All week long Colin and I look forward to spending our Thursday nights with Liz Lemon and Michael Scott. Sunday football makes our forced hibernation from the winter cold a bit more bearable and PBS documentaries have lead to some of our best conversations. But that’s TV at its inarguable best. I don’t feel too guilty about that stuff.

The problem is that in moments of weakness, we find ourselves hypnotized by TV at it’s worst – the kind of programming developed by intellectually lazy profit-motivated television executives who borrow predictable formats from each other and universally aim to appeal to your basest instincts. And there’s a lot of such programs to choose from.

During the first cold winter months of motherhood I’m embarrassed to say that I watched, nay, even looked forward to MTV’s reality dating show Rock of Love, where a dozen groupie-types in astonishingly tiny outfits compete for the affections of aging rocker Bret Michaels in stunts whose true purpose is to expose as much skin and humiliation as possible, creating the perfect storm of vicarious sex, drama and “glad that’s not me”. I felt a strong compulsion to shower after each episode, but still tuned in. Then, there were the more innocent, but equally addicting, bevy of home improvement shows with handsome carpenters and shiny and colorful transformations, which, I’m embarrassed to admit, stole hours of my life.

Watching TV while the sun is shining makes me feel particularly gross and guilty, and nighttime television is slightly less offensive but not when it’s your default way to relax. Colin and I found ourselves turning on the television almost automatically at night almost forgetting that there were other ways to relax after a long day. And the fact that there was more often than not nothing worth watching didn’t deter us. After an hour or so of sitting stupefied by ridiculous Law and Order plot twists or what Colin calls the emotional masturbation of reality transformation shows like Wife Swap, we look at each other baffled at how we were so easily sucked into that vortex of mind-numbing banality. This led to our other nightly ritual of discussing the various ways the shows we had just dedicated hours of our life to were on every level objectionable. Something needed to change.

Getting rid of our new flat screen television seemed a bit too radical, so we got rid of cable and vowed to discipline our TV watching to only include shows truly funny, innovative, or education or (for Colin) important sporting events. You know, the kind of stuff that won’t entirely make you stupid.

So far it’s going well. I can’t say I’ve written any poetry or even upped my chamomile intake, but my house is probably cleaner and so is my mind.