My wife and I have substituted the daily relationships we had with our now college rooted children with a revivifying blend of Netflix, Amazon Prime, and a splash of HBO and Showtime.
We are revisiting our initial dating patterns from now long ago without any of the thoughtful incorporation of each other’s feelings. If viewed from a distance and with a cold eye, our marriage is now dependant on how rapidly a new season of our favorite programs come available.
As a fatalist, I constantly fret that Hollywood will not keep pace with our romantic hybrid. My ever-optimistic wife concerns herself only with “which” and never “if” new shows will come along,
By the time we had finished “Game of Thrones,” I had bought a long-handled, two-headed ax and had our dog scared shitless that I was coming for him. I had also knitted a flattering hair shirt. My wife had chained our cat in the basement for random and destructive fire-breathing , ( it incinerated the parakeet).
The twenty-three-year run of “Breaking Bad” provided three extensions to our house from the windfalls from my sale of bright blue methamphetamine to my now high strung neighbors.
This month we are watching “The Tudors”, so I am guessing it won’t be long before I take on a couple of new wives and spend my days ripping bodices.