No white noise, no background commentary, no amplified commercials filling the air, life without TV is quieter than I remembered. The noise had had a physical presence before like a fog hanging low. The air was thick, stuffy, and putridly congested as if someone had been lying sickly on the couch for ten years, never once bothering to bathe or at least crack a window; and all this time, the cure for the disease was literally at my fingertips, right in the remote control. As the entertainment system powered down, the silence settled over me like a cool breeze as if both I and the house could finally breath. Less static, easier thinking, the noisy tension flowed out of my skull into the quiet room like water through a semi-permeable membrane, vacuumed into the emptiness. The stillness was refreshing and beautiful. I realized that this is what serenity must feel like and it made me smile right down to the soul.
That lasted about, I dunno, five minutes?
For his ninth birthday my nephew, Cole, got a game as a gift. It was a new version of an old favorite for his Nintendo DS, the one the only:
Pokémon.
He showed me his present, positively giddy to begin his quest, and asked, "Is this like the Pokémon you had when you were a kid?" Indeed, looking down at Cole's starry eyes and freckled nose, I saw a bit of my own childhood beaming at me through his gap-tooth smile. When I was his age and all my friends were getting caught up in the Pokémon craze, I, too, asked my parents to buy me my own shiny, red Pokémon game. I remember powering up my Gameboy and being greeted by Professor Oak where he told me, my very own Pokémon legend was about to unfold! A world of dreams and adventures with Pokémon awaits! Let's go!
And so I went, starting with Squirtle and powering through my early teen years absolutely Pokémon obsessed. Long after my classmates had outgrown the trend, my addiction lingered. By the time I hit middle school I'd gone into the Pokécloset, embarrassed to tell my anyone what I loved for fear of public ridicule and viscous pre-teen torment. At fourteen, my ratio of thoughts thinking about this game compared to thoughts about living in the real world had reached critical mass and I was no longer functioning as a social being. The time had come to quit so I cut the stuff cold turkey, packing up my Pokémon cards, cartridges, and daydreams before burying them deep in the back of the attic. It's been almost a decade since I made that decision and I haven't looked back since.
That is, until today.
Sure, the Pokémon Red of yesteryear isn't as flashy as the "Ruby" and "Diamond" versions kids are playing nowadays, and my mono-chromatic Game Boy Color probably doesn't hold a candle to Cole's touch-screen Nintendo DS, but other than that (and a few new pocket monsters) not much in the world of Pokémon has changed over the last ten years. Cole started asking me obscure questions like, "When does this guy evolve," "What level does that guy learn this move," and, "Which of my Pokémon would be best against that Pokémon?" I answered questions about every thing from battle strategy to training tips and, frankly, it's scary how much useless information I retained for the ten years. I can't remember what the name of my best friend was from soccer camp (maybe Jacob? I think it started with a 'J') but I can tell you what level Pidgey evolves into Pidgeotto (18) and the best place to find some rare candies without an item finder (behind the house on the left in Cerulean City).
The second I started fielding inquiries and offering insights, Cole's face lit up like a Christmas tree. Being surrounded by adults and an uninterested older brother, he was categorically ecstatic to find someone else in this house who spoke Pokémon fluently. He took to following me around, sitting next to me on the couch, following me to my room, waiting outside the bathroom while I took a dump, and tagging along behind me on trips to the bank. Eventually I took to the attic, dug out my old Gameboy, and we played side-by-side. The bonding was really kind of awesome.
Unfortunately, by playing this game with my nephew, I'd snuck a peak into Pandora's Box and all my old troubles spilled out into the world. I started ignoring the tasks I needed to accomplish that day and chose to simply not clean my room or edit my blog. Today, I could have made a lot of progress on my day off from work but instead I skipped my workout for the first time in almost a month. I kept promising myself Once I get this badge, or As soon as this guy gets to such-and-such a level, or It doesn't matter where I am, in 15 minutes I'm saving this fucking game and turning it off, but it never happened.
Cut to me at 4:00 AM with work only a few hours away and I haven't blinked all night let alone slept. I finally passed out twenty minutes later and woke up this morning extremely disappointed in myself.
It was so familiar. It was so fun. It was a taste I hadn't tasted in ten years and God was it tasty. This is why recovering alcoholics can't have even one drink without falling off the wagon. We could choose to stop if only we could stop long enough to really think about it, but our vices make it so nice to not stop and not think about anything at all. The shame was outweighed by the pleasure and so I binged.
And I just kicked TV.
This is dangerous and needs to stop while I still have the good sense. Tomorrow I won't touch my Gameboy at all. I should probably throw it out for safety, but that seems a bit drastic for childhood treasures. Instead, I think I'll stow it away for a rainy day with no time commitments when I've already accomplished everything that needed to be done that week, and even then I might abstain in favor of something more productive. This an indulgence that must be taken in extreme moderation.
Oh, and I'll be doing two work outs tomorrow to make up for lost time. Penance for my sins.
Day 29.
TFR. SYT.
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