Friends, it’s time I confessed. My husband and I have a
little problem. I could argue that it’s his problem and I’m just the enabler,
but you could argue other way around too. The truth is we are both addicted. We
have a problem with West Wing.
It started as simple escapism, a coping mechanism for
getting through the Bush years. Leading up to 2004 the series at least gave us
hope that an alternative to the Current Occupant could exist, that our flag
would still wave beyond these dark times. We’re not big TV watchers, so it was
easy to excuse the obsession with coming home on time Wednesday nights, and
later Sundays, to see the latest installment. It connected us to our friends
and to pop culture, of which we get precious little.
But now, I fear our little addiction has lost its social
acceptability. We haven’t just watched the series once. We bought all the DVD’s.
And we’ve watched them all – more than once. On any given evening as night
falls and the kids are finally in bed, you are likely to find us huddling on the
couch, self-medicating with the wit of CJ, the loyalty of Charlie, the gruff passion
of Toby. (We almost named Johannes Tobias instead. . . I’m glad we didn’t).
Does anyone know a way out of this little problem? I know
admitting it is the first step. . .