The Old Gal Had Let Herself Go

Do something.  Don't just sit there.

                                                                    
Not to be harsh, but honestly, the old gal had let herself go. That kind of extra tonnage is unhealthy. You’d get a hernia trying to lift her.  I warned her. I dropped a few hints now and then. Lighten up, I scolded. Do some sit-ups. Do something. Don’t just sit there. You’re a heart attack waiting to happen. Did she listen? No. Every night, she indulged in a wide caloric array. Wendy’s, McDonald’s, Jack in the Box, Carl’s Junior. Fast food made her sing upbeat, catchy ditties like, “I’m luvin’ it!”  Come to think of it, she had a nice voice. Girlfriend could carry a tune. High, low or in between, her volume control was impressive. And let’s not forget her other attributes. She put colors together like a pro.  Okay, so now and then her forest greens went suspiciously lime, her blues lost luster, her reds turned orange, but most of the time, everything matched. Call her old-fashioned, maybe even a tad outdated, but on her, it worked.

We had good times, the two of us. I had only to beckon, “Bring it on,” and she delivered my request:  “Lost.” “Grey’s Anatomy.” “American Idol.” “Project Runway.” “Top Chef.” The late, great “Everwood” and “Felicity.”  Short of a thunderstorm or high winds, there was no chick show she denied me. She was generous to a fault. I could order anything off the menu. Comedy, tragedy, hard news. Whatever I was in the mood for, whenever I wanted it, she sent it my way.  Ours was the ideal relationship. When the screaming started downstairs – maybe the Lakers were losing, maybe the Bruins – she muffled up the macho sounds of disappointment with peppy theme songs and laugh tracks.

Clearly, the old gal – and by old, I mean seven and a half – understood my needs. I thought we’d be together forever. And then one day, in the middle of “How I Met Your Mother,” something went very wrong. Right before my eyes, she started to fade. First came flickering. Then her horizontal hold went haywire. Before long, she lost all sense of focus. I walked over to her and patted her calmly.

“You okay?” No response. I could hear “How I Met Your Mother,” I just couldn’t see it. That pushed me over the edge. I’m not a violent person, but I had to take action. It hurts to admit this, but I did what I had to do. I gave her a good strong whack, then another. I thought it would help. I was mistaken.  Hubby came running into the room. “What the – ?” One look and he drew his own conclusion. “Stand back,” he cautioned.

I did as I was told.  He lifted his hand – and whomp! – his manly smack did the trick. It brought her back to life. “How I Met Your Mother” reappeared. All was right with the world. Not for long. By “Sex in the City" on TBS, she started to flat line. We tried to revive her again. We took turns doing CPR, only to see her die out again. What would Big do?  Get cold feet.  Dump her? 

The answer was obvious; the solution pricey.  That 100-pound clunker was a goner. Her replacement arrived UPS, all sleek and sexy-like; a flat screen testament to high definition.  We’ve been together awhile  now. She’s a lot more demanding than the old dinosaur she succeeded. She only needed one remote. The new gal needs two. She’s complicated. She takes time to figure out. Granted, she’s a stunner at 42 inches wide. And she’s ruthless. She magnifies every flaw on every face. I like that in a TV. It’s comforting to know that makeup, Botox and liposuction can’t guarantee perfection.

The other day, my husband and youngest son carried the old set outside and unloaded her by the trash cans. There was swearing and a few torn ligaments. A big toe nearly broke in the process. Trust me, it’ll be decades before anyone attempts to move her again. One day, I’m sure she’ll wind up in a giant landfill along with all the other abandoned sets that couldn’t keep up with the times. Till then, R.I.P.T.V. Turning you on was sweet.