10:11am. I am sitting in my parents’ living room, feet clad in camp socks and Ugg slippers perched prominently upon the coffee table as if they thought they were the Sunday Style section of the Times. I drink tea. I turn on the television. In the kitchen, my dad is rolling strips of thinly sliced lox, just the way I like it, into tiny circles and placing them side by side on a large, ceramic platter. I mean, it’s brunch. We care about these things. Presentation is everything.
The first and best program I find to feast my eyes on, appeasing my grumbling stomach that yearns for a not-scooped out whole wheat everything, is SpongeBob SquarePants.
An episode of SpongeBob on a Sunday morning is better than prescribed anxiety medication. It is prescribed anxiety medication, that which I seemed to have left behind at some point in my life say, um, seven to fifteen years ago. The Feeling Of Watching SpongeBob On A Sunday Morning In Pajamas is one that has no proper name and not nearly enough recognition; yet, it was a strange experience because until I was feeling The Feeling, I didn’t realize it was one I hadn’t felt in ages.
Maybe I can blame this on the fact that I don’t have a TV in any bedroom I call my own — at home or school or place of sleep during summer or anything — but I’d guess that even if you do, you don’t come across this feeling often. And that is because your time is spent watching Netflix, which is an experience entirely different from watching normal television in the way we once did pre-Netflix.
Last week, I took my thirteen-year-old cousin shopping. I asked her what shows she watches, and this was her answer: “Glee (because they have all the seasons on Netflix now), and The Fosters [to which I asked, ‘is that on Netflix too?’ and she replied, ‘yes’]. Mostly YouTube videos.”
Now, I highly doubt that all practices of Saturday and Sunday morning cartoon watching are dead, because how else can parents of children old enough to sit up but not crawl or walk get those extra thirty minutes of sleep? Yet, they are less abundant than they once were, which I learned this weekend not just from the SpongeBob Experience but also from my 2-4pm half-napping-on-the-couch experience later that day.
You know how they take victims to crime scenes or have them smell things to bring back their memory? I forget the term for it — I know there is one, maybe it’s sensual memory (if that isn’t used to describe a graphic way of recollecting sexual experience) — but that’s what I had this weekend. I forgot that I once spent three hours every Saturday morning watching back-to-back episodes of Say Yes to the Dress all throughout middle and most of high school until I found myself back in that same sleepy position on the couch.
Today, if I want to watch a movie or a TV show when I wake up or before bed, I watch it on my computer in bed. I’ve lost my free spirited ways of flipping through channels in search of something satisfying. Thus, there’s no more sporadic SpongeBob watching until Criminal Minds is back on at 4, or no pleasant surprise when The Hot Chick is on TV. We miss the things we settled for (though in hindsight we realize SpongeBob was never truly “settling”) because we are now the masters of our own TV guides.
My mom and I used to eagerly await the two hours of TV time we’d spend together on nights when “our shows” were on — House, American Idol, Private Practice, Grey’s Anatomy, 24, Gossip Girl, Girls, Pretty Little Liars, True Blood, ER — but now, for me at least, there is no waiting. I’m so concerned with catching up on all of the important television art and pop culture I missed while I was too busy worrying about about Serena and Blair that I have no time for OITNB or House of Cards. Instead, I spent the last month speeding through 30 Rock. I couldn’t watch this season of Girls the fun way — waiting for the weekly episode to drop — because I didn’t have time to keep up. Instead, I binge-watched it all in two sittings when it was over. I did the same with Broad City. And Portlandia.
Netflix has created a universe of binge-watching television maniacs that hastily compete as if it is sport. Today, there is a cornucopia of good TV at my disposal. And the library keeps on growing. At this rate, I will never be well-versed in everything I should. I will never know or care about who died in the season finale of Game of Thrones. I will never have time to watch SpongeBob again.
Instead, I’ll be over here, tucked in bed with the lights turned off, with nothing but the warm glow of my laptop (which will one day surely give me radiation poisoning and turn me blind, yay!) and the insidious words on the lower righthand corner of my screen: “Next episode playing in 13 seconds.”
This week was the tenth anniversary of Friends, that sitcom everyone quotes on an hourly basis. Friends constitutes a generation. When I was younger, I found it enticing simply because the idea of hanging out with your friends–having such a close relationship with someone who wasn’t my little brother–was incredibly foreign. Friends was realistic, yet romantic. And everyone, everyone, everyone liked it.
I’ve always had an open relationship with Friends, as in it’s the kind of show you can watch random episodes of and always understand. This made friends inclusive. Basically everybody could like Friends. But at the same time, because everybody knew Friends, there was an underlying pressure to really know Friends. I never made it to that level in the hierarchy. Most of my best friends can randomly catch a rerun midway through on TV, and recite every line perfectly. (Side note: I feel like I’m using the word “friends” a lot, so forgive me. Word repetition is my pet peeve.) Because it was so easy to be a Friends-pert (friends-expert), it was frowned upon that I was not one.
Though the cheesy lines and corny relationships are pretty cute, I am sometimes in disbelief at the fan-culture persisting from Jennifer Aniston’s chronic nippleitis or the “Monica Geller haircut.” Even consider Chandler’s shocking weight loss as something everyone who’s seen the show knows about. A show must resonate with its audience if the audience is paying just as much attention to out-of-character physical flaws as it is to the characters themselves. That being said, the kryptonite in Friends is that there is–or was–no line between reality and fiction. We obsess over Jennifer Aniston/Rachel’s lack of a thickly padded bra because that was not a costume flaw; it was a real flaw in the real wardrobe of a real woman. Yes, the quirky array of characters made life look easy and fun, but you must admit how much they eerily remind you of your guy friends from high school. I have nippleitis sometimes, so does Rachel Green, and that’s life.
The funniest thing is that I always thought we watched TV because it provided a complete escape from whatever was going on in reality. But doesn’t it seem like the real addictions are born from the shows that are closest to real life? At the end of the day, Friends is perfectly flawed. Life is flawed, too, but just not the way we want it to be. If we had to choose our flaws, life would probably turn out looking an awful lot like an NBC sitcom. Dontchya think?