As you know, I am not a television fan. Mostly, it’s a waste of time. Television is a nerve jangling distraction in my quest to live a soothing life; a life floating on a cloud of calm, overlooking a sea of serendipity, a lovely life of sunshine and happiness, pretty flowers and long sandy beaches, simple pleasures that are completely removed from reality.
I don’t live in a pristine bubble. In the evenings, I am joined by an impostor, who tricked me by pretending he liked the same things I like. He bound me to him with a marital contract, which detained me long enough to realize he was unfit and unprepared to make his way through life without my assistance. I allow him to control the television remote.
It all started with sporadic episodes of Deadliest Catch, a harmless glimpse into a way of life that I used to know. Before I knew it, I was watching weekend marathons to catch up on what I’d missed. I bought in to every aspect of the show. They were my friends. I cried for the Harris brothers when their dad died. I used to think I could walk away from the TV at any time. I don’t know how it infiltrated my life. I’m losing sleep over it.
Last night, I tried to stay awake to watch the season finale of Duck Dynasty. The entire Robertson family goes on vacation to Hawaii. I made it as far as Willie losing his luggage and Miss Kay falling asleep in the hotel room while Phil watched a Bourne Supremacy marathon. I’m not ashamed to say I am hooked. As Phil might say, “It’s because the show makes me happy, happy, happy.”
The Robertsons are comforting, if not completely authentic. They remind me of The Waltons. Both families are loyal to the concept of unity, have a deep faith, are working class, and incorporate wit and charm in a message of caring. I like that the Robertsons end each show with Phil saying grace at the family meal. The commitment and continuity are soothing.
My husband and I watch the programs and we’re lost in worlds that remind us of times when life seemed simpler.