I’m not a TV lover. In fact, I often say (and mean it) that if it wasn’t for my husband’s love of TV, I wouldn’t have one at all. I’d much rather read or work on an artsy fartsy project than stare at a screen.
That said, I do enjoy a good series every now and then, so we decided to snuggle in for a self-care series: House of Cards.
Fifty-two shows later, we were exhausted. As suspenseful as it was, I remember at one point thinking to myself, “Do I really need to see the end that badly?” Nevertheless, we couldn’t look away.
I admit, the 40-ish hours it took us to watch the series is a bit excessive, but it was kind of nice to lay our other distractions aside and get immersed in a fictional TV show for a while. I don’t read a lot of fiction, so this was rare treat for me. (I have a little problem with suspension of disbelief.)
I totally get the attraction to binge watching. You don’t have to wait as long for the conclusion, you don’t have to carve out time from the normal busy week to watch it. But I still can’t imagine doing this very often. It was draining, and toward the end it felt like work.