I think a rite of passage into adulthood is finally figuring out how to manage your free time effectively. I’m always impressed by my friends who schedule their days off with penciled-in times to read great books or go on long hikes. I had such an opportunity to exhibit my adulting free time skills recently when Chris announced he’d have to go out of town for a family visit. It went about as well as you’d expect.
Before he left, he asked what I planned to do with all this “me” time.
“I’m looking forward to the free time for myself while you’re out of town,” I said. “I’ll probably get some writing done. Or maybe go for a hike. Take a yoga class. Something fulfilling.”
What I really meant was: “While you are gone, I will use the free time to finally watch all those episodes of Storage Wars I saved on the DVR. Then I’m going to sit around in my SpongeBob flannel pajamas eating Kraft Easy Mac, drinking Malibu rum straight from the bottle, and writing prank emails at 3 a.m. to people who post Craigslist Missed Connection ads.” You know, something truly fulfilling.
Having true alone time or free time should be productive. If I were a real adult, I would be spending this time really getting my house in order, doing some home repairs, or finally working on that “great American novel” I’ve stopped and started writing so many times I’ve lost count. Yes, those are all the things I “should” be doing. But my reality is a rather different picture than that.
I spent the first part of my “me time” drinking chocolate milk out of a plastic Barbie cup and going through every room in our house singing every single song from my “Best of The Pointer Sisters” CD at the top of my lungs. Things were off to a great start.
My plan was to spend the whole day parked on the sofa watching as much television as humanly possible. Then the cable and internet went out and suddenly all my plans were ruined. What am I supposed to do, read a book? Is this the 1600s or something? So I spent the morning on the phone with the cable company in what I can only describe as a dark timeline of utter futility. Making a call to any utility company feels like you’re Frodo falling helplessly in the Dead Marshes, surrounded by trapped souls struggling to draw another victim into their misery. My experience was slightly worse than that.
9:15: “No, all the wires are plugged in. Yes, I double-checked it five times. They are in the exact same place as always. I have never ever touched these wires.”
9:23: “No, I did not unplug anything. Why the blank would I do that? What do you think, I just walk around my house going, ‘Oh, there’s a cable. I should yank it from the box it’s been plugged into for two years.’ Have you ever actually spoken to a person who has done this?”
9:44: “Yes, for the last time, THE CABLES ARE PLUGGED IN.”
9:52: “What do you mean, ‘Unplug the cables?’ You seriously did not ask me that. Are you kidding? You want this cable unplugged? Then, buddy, you better come down here and unplug it because I’ll tell you what you can do with your cables right now.”
9:55: “Oh, please, you can’t be ‘banned for life’ from calling the cable company. Get me your supervisor.”
10:15: Apparently you can be ‘banned for life’ from calling the cable company. Anyway … .
By noon the cable company gods had deemed I had completed enough of my penance and restored my TV and internet to me. By then, I had reverted to a primitive state, drawing crude cartoons on my wall, pointing to the sun and screaming “FIRE MONSTER OF SKY” while huddled around a fire I built out of all my Friends DVDs. But a few episodes of Guy’s Grocery Games later and I was back to normal.
Here’s what I learned from doing nothing but watching TV for a full solid day:
1. Apparently there can never be enough reality shows about rich people’s ex-wives.
2. According to Dateline, if you fall in love and marry someone, sooner or later they will murder you for insurance money.
3. Despite more than 150 channels of arts and entertainment programming conceptualized by some of the most well-paid people in Hollywood, the best thing on is a Carrot Top movie dubbed in Spanish.
Around 9 p.m., I had the brilliant idea to start watching a marathon of Dexter. Because what better thing to do when you’re all alone in a big dark house than watch a terrifying show about a serial killer? What could go wrong?
By 11 p.m., I had locked myself in my closet and was moments away from making a panicked phone call to police, begging them to come save me from what sounded like the steadied footsteps a vengeful, knife-wielding maniac. That turned out to be a fan I forgot to turn off in the living room, but you never can be too safe.
When Chris got back home and settled in, he asked how I spent my free time. “Did you get that yoga class in?”
“Oh yes, it was truly an enriching time,” I replied. “I spent some time with myself and got reacquainted with ‘the real me.’”
“You spent the entire day watching TV in your underwear, didn’t you?” he responded.
“That is the ‘real me,’ Chris.”
It’s true. I’m not the woman who is going to schedule her transcendental meditation time or set aside free time for a long walk in the park. I’m the woman who spends a day alone half-asleep in her cozy pajamas watching marathons of terrible shows and arguing with utility companies while simultaneously convincing Pizza Hut to deliver a box of wine instead of pizza. And I’m perfectly fine with that.
Rebecca Rose is a freelance writer and satirist whose origins are largely unknown. Some people suspect she was raised by a pack of wolves, except it is highly unlikely that wolves would put up with so much drinking and swearing. Contact her via Arts Editor Joe Payne at jpayne@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Dec 1-8, 2016.