Inside my Television

The worst part about Television is the stark and absolute difference of reality in comparison. It’s like holding up a Rembrandt to a napkin doodle.1

The stars of my favorite television shows simply fast-forward through the mundane bits of life. They appear to be at work or at school and yet, it’s a constant lunch hour; a never-ending hallway drama. Boring parts just fade into the next scene and the excitement stretches to Infiniti.2

Eating, too, is just so overrated. Meals are prepared or paid for but never eaten. Something urgent comes up at the last minute; a phone call with a shocking revelation, a woman goes into labor, a knock at the door with an urgent message. It’s not surprising how thin they are. Even if I happen to hate the food I’ve just ordered I know I’ll eat it. You don’t just buy it and not eat it. 3

This is what breaks my heart. I desperately want to crawl inside my television screen and join their alien world of glamour and drama. Sure, I might end up a pregnant teenager or a psychotic doctor or maybe even a serial killer mom but I’m willing to take that chance. I’d never get food stuck in my teeth, I wouldn’t work out but I’d still have a killer body and my house would be chronically clean without ever having to actually clean anything. Laundry is far too boring and besides, it’s not as if I wear the same outfit twice. I lead a very busy life, you know.4

Grunting my way off the couch and sweeping the crumbs off my shirt isn’t my idea of sexy. I mosey into the kitchen and evaluate the pantry first and then the refrigerator, repeating this ritual three times before narrowing my options and deciding on a bag of Tostado chips, the perfect choice for a mindless munch. It’s salty finger food that requires zero preparation time and thus, I adore them. 5

As unsatisfying as my life is, I’ve come to look forward to the little things, the very things that in fact make me a defect in humanity in the first place--television and junk food. It is actually another world completely. I am not a loser with no social life and an emotional attachment to food but rather a student at some ritzy high school where there appears to be some kind of uniform and yet the skirts are very short and the idea of equality is a laugh. Tonight, though, I’m a judge on panel with Tyra. 6

“Yes, she has shown improvement, but frankly, I just don’t think she’s ready for this industry,” I tell the other judges. They nod. “She’s a sweet girl but needs a tougher skin if she expects to move forward in this competion.” My opinion is widely respected and it’s really no surprise, seeing as my background in fashion is extensive. I have a line coming out in the fall featuring ridiculously expensive clothes that no sane person would wear. I’ve really made a name for myself and I know potential when I see it.7

Later on, I’ll probably have some ice cream and weep with joy at my makeover. A gay man with bubbling enthusiasm asks me to open my eyes and take a look at my new self. “This is such a dream come true. I never believed I could look so beautiful.” After a horrific freak accident as a child, I never thought I would lead a normal life and now the possibilities are endless. Thank you, thank you.8

Only during commercial breaks does the degree of pathetic start to sink back in. My own dullness is increasingly apparent until the theme jingle return and sucks me back into my virtual happy place. Think of it as a mirror that tells you lies you love to hear. Life is wonderful on the other side of that glass, sinking into the couch and indulging every taste bud while simultaneously living through the lives of my TV characters. 9

And then there is my life: 10

There are two tiny pit stains on my shirt before I even get to work because the a/c in my car only blows hot air now. Must remember not to point to anything or reach higher than 45 degree angles. Walking to my desk is always made slightly awkward by the obnoxious clacking of my heels. I get the feeling everyone thinks I’m pretentious for drawing so much attention to myself.11

Upon arriving at my desk, which gets farther from the door every day, I notice an email from my boss concerning the new policy on personal emails and phone calls. Not only are they prohibited but they will be monitored. The list of recipients includes only me and Stacey, who is notorious for the junk emails professing to send you true love if you simple forward this to 10 people. She’s singling me out along with the office bimbo. Lovely. A couple of friendly phone calls back in July and I’m on her black list.12

After lunch I am stunned to find the women’s room empty. This is likely a once in a life time opportunity. Mid-dump three hens come in at once, sabotaging my alone time. They seem to quiet down just enough to hear the “plop” of my poo hitting to water. I know I should be mature enough to not care but I seriously consider waiting it out in the stall but from the sound of it, Becky thinks her boyfriend might be breaking seeing someone else and Tracy has the “perfect advice.” I man up and come out of the stall keeping my eyes averted and my pace steady. 13

Finally the clock reads 5:00 and I bolt for the door with thoughts of Cheez-it’s and What Not To Wear marathons dancing in my head. The cute guy standing next to the copy machine stops me and asks to borrow a pen. Digging one out of my purse, he informs me that my shirt button is undone. It's the crucial button, the boob button. He winks at me and for the first time I notice the mole on his neck and feel repulsed and violated.14

Clack clacking to my car, doing the this-skirt-is-too-tight run/walk and I’m dying to slip into the TV screen with Stacey and Clinton and all the people who really understand me15