GreenLit

We do this thing--Bryan and I. Netflixiosis. Where we rent seasons of shows at a time and devour them 3, 4, 5, 6 episodes a night. Our eyes crunchy and sag-bagged, he might turn to me or I to him--another?--and the other will nod even though the clock reads no more, the two of us hunched under our plush throw that pilled in the wash last year.

But that is not the thing. The thing that we do, it's like this: when we were renting The Sopranos we would watch them so densely packed that our days were colored Gandolfini. I would only sit if my back was against the wall. What? You want a fuckin' Whitman's sampler? Bryan would say to me apropos of Lucky Charms, and I would narrow my eyes because I am nobody's goomah. (When we were watching Six Feet Under I turned corners in my car and thought of spackle, and then there was the week of Weeds when we giggled. Breaking Bad was very bad, every decision ending in yo', Californication with oh dear, things I cannot, will not ever mention.)

But that is all in the past, some of those realities since cancelled, the rest waiting in our queue like costumes. Now we are watching Season One of In Treatment and at night Bryan turns to me and asks wanna' go to therapy? I nod my head yes, yes, of course, we need this, Laura who only breathes out of her mouth, Alex, thin Sophie, god how we hate Jake and Amy. Why are they even together? Our hands meet in the bowl of popcorn; together we rumble GAIIIIINA when Dianne Wiest comes onscreen.

In the day I wonder why we do that. What does it mean? Pronouncing Gina Gaina, ceci n'est pas une pipe, all the world never just a cigar from a couch with its own waiting room. When Bryan calls to tell me he's running late he follows with and how does that make you feel? This man who I usually think of as my silent Indian.

The thing is with this thing we do: there are things that may or may not be Things. Because lately Zoey has been blinking. Which is good, of course, fine, normal. Blinking. But Blink. Ing. And again. Blink. Ing. Kind of exaggerated. Kind of a lot. Have you noticed--and Bryans says yes and we tell each other not to call attention. Of course if this were a week when we were watching The Sopranos I would think she was being disrespectful; Weeds? Three years old and totally stoned. But we are not saturated in those shows now but this one, and I wonder why it is so important to me that I know why my daughter is suddenly opening and closing her eyes.

When I consult our family physician, Dr. Www, I am assured that it's common, exaggerated blinking in toddlers. A transient tic (or a brain tumor, good thing Six Feet Under is four years gone). Not to worry. When I tell my mother she reminds me that I stuttered as a child. I remind her that I grew up to be a woman with severe anxiety.And so we try not to notice. (And how does that make you feel?) Today at the park my friend told me that her husband thinks I am creating a mini-me. Does that mean he thinks I wear leopard ears in public and only pink? I asked, and we laughed. But the thing is I already created it, her. It's a wrap, and I am left to study her until my eyes go dry thinking of articles I have read in waiting rooms.

Images found here.