I don’t believe in New Year’s Resolutions, so I don’t make them. But, as the calendar year draws to a close and a new one dawns, I can’t help but think about certain goals or intentions.
On January 1, 2012, I mentally took stock of the relationships in my life: which ones were feeding me? which ones were draining my life force? Looking at the 12 pristine months ahead of me, I hoped to enrich my life by letting go of relationships that no longer served me.
Now, I can’t help but notice that we are passed the half-way mark of 2012, and I have a success to report!
I have finally broken up with Netflix once and for all. No more booty calls late at night, no last-minute scrambling for a movie delivery company like a single woman scrounging for a date to a wedding. There will be no make-up sex. Netflix and I — WE. ARE. DONE.
I finally let go because I was sick of the painful cycle, that always went like this:
I gleefully set up my queue.
The movies start coming.
I pretend I have plenty of time to watch 3 movies per week.
We A cleaning lady dusts around them as they sit on the counter.
“Gotta watch those movies,” I tell myself when I tune into re-runs of Little House On the Prairie.
Six weeks go by; Netflix continues to charge me.
I finally sit down to watch a movie, say, that documentary about Justin Bieber’s life.
I realize I can’t watch more than one movie per week.
I adjust my account and swear I will watch my one movie each week.
Artsy friends with too much free time suggest movies that I dutifully put in my queue.
My queue starts to mock me as it grows beyond 200 selections.
My husband asks, “What’s up with Netflix? Should we cancel?”
“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo,” I protest. We. Can. Watch. Movies. “Let’s try harder!”
I resolve to watch more movies. Or at least a movie. Or at the very least the previews before the movie.
My husband takes over the queue.
We return An Inconvenient Truth and Whale Watcher after they have sat idly for 6 months.
“What we need is a fresh start.”
The Curious Life of Benjamin Button arrives.
I have a heart attack: I can’t get through a 12-hour movie.
I accuse my husband of setting me up for failure.
I declare, “If we don’t watch this movie within 2 weeks, we can cancel.”
Apparently, we’re not that curious about Benjamin Button’s life.
I ask for “one more, just one more” chance.
My husband relents.
We order Iron Lady.
The Iron Lady arrives quietly 2 days later.
I decide it sounds boring, and I don’t “get” the British accent.
Plus, Meryl Streep gave a horrible speech at the Oscars.
I tell my husband, “Ok, seriously, one more –”
He cuts me off, “No.”
I assume begging posture, “Pleeeassssseeee, just–”
“No. We’re done.”
So, we Jeff cancels Netflix.
* * *
I am happy to be relieved of the burden of those red envelopes.
I sometimes miss it, especially when I think about the movies I want to see: That Katy Perry documentary or Au Revoir Les Enfants or The Artist and anything with
Ryan Gosling Sir Anthony Hopkins.
I vow to white-knuckle the rest of the summer re-run season. I feel healthier everyday. I accept I am not a “movie” person. If I can keep this up, maybe I can deal with my toxic relationship with Zappos.