Fast Forward

My wife and I sat watching TV one night when she handed me the remote control and said, “Here you go”, and immersed herself in a magazine. Prior to that, I was sitting in my leather recliner, reading a book, and minding my own business, innocent as a saint. All of a sudden, I was in charge of the remote with all of the responsibility that went along with that.

Make no mistake. My wife knew what she was doing. She’s clever. Too clever. She didn’t hand me the remote to put me in charge. This was not an act of magnanimity, a corporal work of mercy on the level of feeding the hungry or clothing the naked. Oh, no, just the opposite. She had placed me in a position of servitude. There was no official ceremony, no parade, but I was now her unhired hand:

“From now on, thou shalt serve us (the royal we) as our official Electronics Lackey. Thou shalt handle the menial tasks of fast-forwarding past commercials, adjusting the volume when it doesn’t suit our temperament, and pausing the program at our leisure. We dub thee Valet of the Volume, Minstrel of the Mute, Chamberlain of the Channel, Keeper of the Clicker, Steward of Ye Royal Remote, Butler of the Button, and Control-Bearer to the Queen. Now get on with it.”

No longer could I watch my show in freedom and rely on her to handle these chores. I was the one who would have to exert his precious energy. I would have to nip the commercials in the bud, fast forward at the precise speed – not too slow where it takes too long, but not too fast where I skip the beginning – and if I went too far, I would have to rewind the show to recover any missed dialogue.

Who needs this hassle? I have important things to do, like sit in my chair and conform my derriere to the seat. And other things too. She’s not the boss of me. Right?