There are certain things the kid version of me wanted that make the current version of me shake his head. I once longed for a three-level penthouse apartment, a cabin forty miles from anywhere and anyone, and a car with an awe-inspiring sound system.
Things are not exactly as that idiot would have imagined. Penthouses are surprisingly high maintenance; forty miles from anywhere is a terrible school district; and loud music, in a car or otherwise, tends to upset small children.
There is one very attainable desire that I look back on with disdain: a television in my bedroom.
Television was always a big part of my life. I had parents and everything–they were and are delightful–but I had a notebook filled with shows I’d watch penciled in to the half-hour over summer vacations. I have never been as prepared for anything else in my entire life.
Best of all, it was completely unnecessary because I had the entire thing memorized anyway. It was gross. (Come to think on it, remembering things is also something I’ve drifted away from.)
In that world, an in-room television with as many channels as economically possible was an absolute fantasy. It was on par with dating that hot girl or having that amount of money where happiness can in fact be purchased.
At various points I did end up reaching that pinnacle of success, by living in places where my only personal space was my bedroom, the inclusion of a television seemed almost reasonable.
A lot has changed since then. In fact, until the Packer game (hate hate hate) Sunday, our television hadn’t even been connected to cable for weeks, just the Apple TV. I forgot about it.
Some of this can be attributed to our expanding family, wherein time is imaginary and nearly all media is at a toddler level (that George sure is curious). Even before that, though, Lovely Wife and I have been less inclined to stare at idle television.
So much so, to the rage of the younger, dumber version of myself, we’re staunchly against a television in the bedroom. Where once the TV was constantly humming, I now read books (sort of) quietly to unwind.
Television isn’t even all that entertaining anymore. I focus too much on the advertisements I’d spent decades training myself to ignore. Programming is far worse than I remember. We may be in a golden age of television writing and drama, but we keep up with those eight shows pretty easily without the other 160 hours and 50 channels of terrible available.
So to the youth within:
"Shut the hell up, you’re drunk, which is crazy because you’re, like, twelve. Just like your dreams of having a great car with really good speakers or an off-the-grid cabin, a television in the bedroom is a horrible, stupid, ridiculous idea.
“You know you can get all that on a ten-inch tablet now anyway, right?”
As you can see, my desires have always been a bit–eclectic. ↩
There are exceptions. Like if it’s chanty, repetitive, or sung by weird English dads. At least the Littles have great taste. ↩
$4,873,403.48, in case you’re curious. Roughly. ↩