The world is layered in ice this morning.
From all inside views out … every step outside looks like a potential emergency room visit.
So, with literally no place to go but work, I’m opting to wait this one out snuggled up in my reading room with my French lessons and my Destinations of a Lifetime birthday book, seated across from my faux fireplace, sipping the first of two Italian roasted coffees.
When it comes to this type of weather, living in a place with central heat … I am fortunate to be able to zenly state with confidence: This too shall pass.
Of course, having a stocked wine collection greatly assists this mantra.
I do have other options … there’s always the Australian Open.
Ash Barty’s advancing. She’s always fun to watch. Ash was out for a year and now is on her way back. Unfortunately, I’m not sure Ms. Barty’s enough of a draw for me to A) find the channel on my tedious RoKU TV, and B) mind enough to watch.
There’s just something about watching TV that I simply cannot get behind anymore.
For almost 4 years I didn’t own a TV. Yep, I was THAT person. I never made it a point of conversation, never offered it up as a discussion. That being said, word got around. Until you don’t have one, you never realise how often TV is brought up in conversations.
Oh, and how it used to annoy people when my lifestyle choice was revealed. The response “that’s ridiculous” came up often. Once, a guy I hardly knew expressly visited my office to ask if the rumour was true. I mean, it really bothered some.
One day on our lunch break, a co-worker took me to one of those warehouse stores (the ones that sell frozen trout, armchairs, computers, bulk cereals and pens) and “made” me buy a TV.
It was a good TV. Decent size. Super light. Excellent colour quality. Sleek. It lasted 24 hours in my flat before I gave it to my friend E-Wayne to use in his son’s room.
Then I moved to this poor wee cottage, and both my Irish Twin and father insisted I get a TV. They thought I would be lonelier in a house after so long living in apartments, and old houses make scary inconsistent noises. TV noises, you see, are friendly and dependable.
So I bought a TV.
And it’s been in the other room ever since: In a dedicated space. On a Pottery Barn hallway table. Opposite the sage green sofa. Plugged In. Prêt à utiliser … if that is a correct phrase to apply to a piece of furniture waiting to be turned on.
TV used to be a big thing growing up.
On weekends, we’d have at least 6 movies queued up for family and friends to enjoy.
In our house in the Greek suburb of Politia, we had a top floor penthouse for movie watching, and sleepovers. When I lived with Fossil and Pashy, it was a nightly black and white after dinner. Later, when it was me and JB, it was all about sport – every kind of sport.
But after the 4 years without, TV never really made a comeback in my life.
If I had to calculate the average hours in a week my TV is on … I’d say a high estimate would be 3 hours. And even that sounds too much.
I get asked if I have it on whilst I work. Not only is the answer no. The answer is more akin that it never dawns on me to even do so.
Sometimes, when I walk past my TV, I say to myself “oh, yeah, I own a TV.”
Oh, sure, it’s on for the odd PGA golf or Netflix special here and there. Mostly, though, it’s a dark canvas against a vanilla wall in a living room that I rarely sit in these days.
In a way, my lack of relationship with TV makes me feel other worldly alien and strange. Like I’m walking out of a cave for the first time, into the brilliantly lit avenues of downtown Tokyo.
Backing up my oddness, I’ve now spent more time today writing about my TV, then I have spent this week actually watching my TV.
Numbers don’t lie.