I took my wedding vows. I promised to love, and to cherish, in sickness and in health, blah, blah, blah... But, if the good lord wanted me to abstain from finishing TV shows alone that I had started watching with my husband, well, then, he probably should have been more specific.
It’s not like I planned to take down 5 episodes of The Undoing in one fell swoop, but I couldn’t resist. I told myself I was just going to watch the one episode. And let the poor guy expeditiously catch up. I had no intention of going all the way. But then it was just so very hard to stop. It wasn’t premeditated; it was meaningless.
Look, I could play dumb. I could join him on the sofa, and re-watch those bouncy, auburn ringlets with feigned suspense and awe. I could just pretend the whole thing never happened.
It might be worth it, after all, for the sake of our union. Netflix and Comatose, till herd immunity do us part. It’s our thing. I love it when I can barely hear the breathy whisper of the crazy lady onscreen over the sound of his audible snacking. (Subtitles, please?...) Or when he tells me, like Columbo-reincarnated, that it’s definitely HER flashback because that’s the only thing that makes any sense.
I could lounge here and curl my body so that he can’t see me reading article after article on how Hugh Grant gets into character, or how David Kelley writes on a fishing boat. I'll just block his view of my text chains about plausible storylines for, dare I dream, Season Two. And when he looks over -- and tells me to pay attention because if I miss something important, he’s not explaining it to me -- I’ll just say that I’m holiday shopping. That should shut him up pretty quick. He'll probably just shrug, and not really know what month it is anyway. And he definitely doesn’t need to know that the only reason that I’m less than fully rapt by the way Noma Dumezweni enunciates the word"muck" is because I’ve already been there, done that.
This says nothing about our relationship. Or about how much I love him. This is about me.
I mean, what kind of a person wants to watch explosive courtroom drama alone? And yet, I fear if I have to see Donald Sutherland’s hunchback eyebrows for a single second longer, I might just drive a spike through my own forehead.
So, I’m gonna come clean. I’m telling him the truth. And he better not be mad at me when I spoil it for him, because, well, I will, I mean, I might... because, really, I'm ready to watch something else.
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