Old Friend, Pool

My instantaneous response to the question is always the same. The place I find the most comfort and reflection is mind-deep in a swimming pool. The cool, comforting ease of weight off my ankles cannot be found anyplace else I can think of. The ocean has mystery and depth. Far too heavy to relax. The Jacuzzi is a boiling pot of people soup. Yet, the swimming pool is a cloud I can float as high up on as I’d like, always able to float down to solid ground.

Some of my happiest family memories were spent in the community pool; an amenity that required a gate key and an adult. The chlorine after-smell is bittersweet with childhood nostalgia and stinging eyes. My 10-year-old self enjoyed chicken fights with my sisters atop my dad’s shoulders. We would always win. My teenage self started to mimic the Banana Boat twenty-somethings on the lounge chairs who never seemed to get in. I heard cell phone conversations about tonight’s plans or evil co-workers between magazine page-turns. It was here, alone, and in my pool lounger, that I started my relationship with the sun. I told the pool not to worry. I’m really just here to be with you. 

When I moved up here to New York City from Orlando, Florida, I met the demise of my favorite pastime. The landscape didn’t allow for the lower classes to enjoy swimming privately. The sun didn’t shine year-round. My skin paled so fast, I had to darken my hair to compensate. I didn’t realize the seemingly effortless bronzing I’d done as a teenager was only temporary. Not only did my quality of life decrease, but my body also suffered. I gained weight and became Vitamin D deficient. I was diagnosed with arthritis at age twenty-three. I had to shed the pounds if I wanted to feel less pain, but the catch was—exercising hurt like hell. I had to find a pool, and fast. I shopped for years as an adult in NYC for pools to feel at home in. At first, the dark, over-chlorinated dungeons that the gym calls therapeutic was not worth the trip over. But now, over six years later, I travel 25 miles by car to be comfortable. It’s still sunless and reeks of chlorine, but it’s okay because, Pool, I’m really just here to be with you. I need you for the rest of my life.  

Meeting Soon: Binge-Watcher’s Anonymous

After completing all five seasons of HBO’s The Wire in less than a month, I considered myself accomplished. Then, Yahoo! News stated that researchers linked TV binge watching to loneliness and depression. They’re claiming that what used to be a job for Ben & Jerry’s and Blockbuster, became the sole purpose of HBO Go, Netflix, and Hulu subscriptions nationwide. There’s nothing wrong with getting a fix from my devices that were sold to me download-ready to bring the big screen to any screen possible. So if I’d been sick of waiting for attention from deadbeat friends, a few clicks brought me onto Rachel and Monica’s sofa for comic relief.

I’ve always loved television, but I managed to turn it into a drug addiction. My drug of choice: Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. This long-standing Dick Wolf production first aired in 1999 when I was ten. I watched my mother watch it at night and wince at the gory, usually semen-soaked details. Living in Orlando, Florida, I was convinced that young girls were inevitably raped upon visiting NYC, where I happened to be born. When I moved to my family’s Upper West Side apartment at 17, I stayed indoors once the sun went down, hoping to never need the services of Manhattan SVU.  The culture shock of the gritty concrete jungle was nothing Detectives Benson and Stabler could have prepared me for. The 79th Street Boat Basin and Riverside Park were my choice outdoor recreation, even though I lived closer to Central Park. I had seen too many episode intros where joggers or dog walkers discover a body there. I avoided finding one and becoming one. Besides introducing me to the sick minds of New York City,  long-running SVU allowed me to continue a relationship with characters that I established trust in 16 years ago. Actual relationships I’ve had with people paled in comparison to my experiences with Olivia, Elliot, Fin, Munch, Cragen, Dr. Warner, and Dr. Huang. These people taught me how to survive in NYC.

I worked as a receptionist at a Long Island newspaper office, and on the weekends, managed their storage facility. When business wasn’t booming, I began bringing my laptop to fill the silence while I did mailers. I discovered a few seasons of SVU on Netflix, and was eager to relive the old cases now as an adult. Without disappointment, I revisited ‘Liv and El’s unbreakable partnership, and enjoyed the episodes as if I were watching them for the first time. I got an extra kick out of seeing an established actor in their no-name days on Law & Order. I enjoyed the high of nostalgia so much that I tethered my phone’s internet to my laptop on the drive home, allowing me to watch, well, hear the episodes while in traffic. I didn’t stop there. The silence of my empty Island Park home badly needed to be filled with the sounds of the Special Victims squad attempting a case. My boyfriend worked nights, and our fluffy Pomeranian wasn’t enough company anymore.

I couldn’t stop. Not until I watched every next episode and season that Netflix would allow. At the time, it was seasons eight through twelve. Something about a contract dispute kept me from “re-enjoying” the first seven seasons, but USA Network reruns filled that void. I watched on my phone and headphones in the supermarket, on the LIRR, and placed my laptop just so, to watch from the shower. As an analytical junior in Media Studies, I knew this behavior was neither healthy, nor normal. I didn’t see anyone else in Burlington Coat Factory re-watching a show they saw at least five times each episode, while shopping for a winter coat. Even knowing this, I don’t care. I didn’t let supposed social norms dictate how I spend my alone time. I don’t care to troll Facebook or Instagram, I rather watch episodes. They always provoked emotion, they didn’t disappoint, and they’re ready when I need them. I couldn’t say that about my friends and family. I found no solace in controlled substances, but I incorporated enough guilty pleasures to stuff my face with as I watched.

Simultaneously, I enjoyed partaking in the trendy hour-long dramas of premium networks: True Blood, Boardwalk Empire, Game of Thrones, Walking Dead, Under the Dome, and Orange is the New Black. I posted memes to “Free Tyrion,” liked memes showing Rick Grimes leaning forward, exchanged opinions about character conundrums, and debated about screenwriting and cinematography. I never read the books or comics that became these shows. My interest is purely in the show itself; the characters, the writing, the scenery, and the cliffhanger. With all of that, I’m set.

I’ve spent weeks on Weeds, Parks & Recreation, and Louie. Aside from being interested in character and plot, it helps to have zero self-control. I’ve spent many valuable homework nights in front a Netflix stream. I couldn’t prioritize outlining a script due tomorrow over knowing what happens next. Amid my extreme watching, I decided to escape journalism and delve into screenwriting, hoping to create the art I love to consume. But my habit is affecting my productivity. I’m not surprised that my indulgence is actually counterproductive. Nothing these new findings correlate surprised me. Clearly I lack self-regulation if I decide to sit still for 13 hours straight to see how Piper handles her next prison dilemma. People who aren’t depressed have tangible support networks– ones that don’t advertise new series’ to get hooked on. Isn’t it common knowledge that loneliness is next to godliness for all things TV? It’s the easiest way to make friends and enemies, relate, laugh, cry, and reminisce. I’ve arrived at the admittance of my problem– the first step to overcoming one.