Binge Hip

There's a certain phenomenon that's been spreading like a plague the past decade. It's an issue that has increased exponentially as the years have gone on. A phenomenon I fondly refer to as "binge hip."

You know how it is. You've had a long week at work. Hell, you've had a long frickin' month. The summer has been busy, you've barely had any time to yourself, and then this workweek decided just to give you the dagger.

Getting home, you wish to slip into some sweet abyss. You click on the TV. And there it is, an escapist fantasy tailor-made for you (and your demographic), blinking in a spotlight feature on your fave steaming platform.

Some new season has just dropped. It dropped harder than you dropped your weekend plans. A half-hearted "Not feeling well. Raincheck?" text, followed by your prompt phone call to the local delivery joint. All the food. You tell them to bring all the food. These provisions will need to last you for at least the next 8.5 hours. A mug of cocoa. A heap of blankets. You kill the overhead lights and plug in that random strand of holiday bulbs that you've somehow never taken down* and you settle the fuck in.

This is for the long haul. You've earned it. You deserve to just turn on, tune in, and drop out... but without psychedelics, and instead with a solid binge-watch. This is your means of escape. This is your time.

The doorbell buzzer goes off. Only an hour has passed, you've barely gotten into the second episode, and your food has arrived. A brief hiatus to tip the delivery guy and grab a fork from the kitchen (since of course there wasn't one in the bag - #TipRegret). A timely switch from cocoa to wine. The briefest of bathroom breaks. And you are BACK in it.

That'll do. Just enough to get through the
emotional roller coaster of the last seven episodes.

Before you know it, day has become night. Night has high-five the witching hour as it drove past it, on its way into what one might call the "wee hours." You've already had a judgmental automated prompter ask you not once, but twice, whether or not you're still watching. (The answer is, yes, I am. Save your criticism for my "to watch" list, bitch.) And then there it is, the black screen. Actual final credits rolling, instead of the usual spillover into the next episode. At least a minute before it'll serve you up the trailer of some similar black hole for you to crawl into as it sucks away your time. You stare into the blackness, back at your own haggard reflection, and click back to the main menu.

It's over. Accomplishment unlocked. You've concurred another wave of content. The water-cooler talk on Monday will be filled with your epic tales of this adventure you've had. You are a g'damn champion.

Blinking, the moisture slowly returns to your eyes. You look about and debate whether a move to the bed is actually worth it, or if you should just remain in your nest, surrounded by empty food and drink containers. It's so late, it doesn't seem worth it. After all, you've got a lovely imprint on the couch that is swaddling you just fine. But then that twinge of guilt hits, over what you've just "accomplished," and you decide that moving to the bedroom would be the "adult" thing to do.

You go to stand up, and a loud creak emits from your hip. Despite your best effort to rotate couch positions, you had continually settled back into that one spot. Nestled firmly into your blanket mound, with one hip holding you slightly aloft so you could snack. And that hip is not happy to have beared the burden of your binge.

To the bed you go, limping like someone sixty years your senior. You collapse into a deep sleep, your eyes embracing the darkness and lack of television glow... Nearly half a Saturday is gone before you finally glimpse the world again. You roll over and out from under the sheets to take a step towards the shower. A creak, a crack, and a pop later, and your hip has proclaimed its continued state of rage. Its warning you. Don't do this again. Go out into the world, walk about, exercise, move, or otherwise give it some room to shake its thing. That hip wants to be free.

You shuffle your way through a shower, your foot barely clearing the edge of the tub as you lift your lifeless leg up and over. A sleepy towel dry, and you promptly return to your pajamas. Grabbing a half-frosted pint of ice cream out of the freezer, you make your way back to the couch. The binge hip lets out a loud protest as you return under the covers and queue up yet another show. Real life, responsibilities, and binge hip be damned -  willpower was never one of your strong points.

If it's not on social media,
did it really happen?

* Hey, it worked in college, right? Strands of cheap lights can set the mood and are arguably less harsh than regular lighting. Let's not shame that shit. It's twinkly bulb magic and should not be typecast as only being able to supply a dull holiday glow. Also. I definitely typed "bulbs that you somehow've never taken down" and then stared, wondering why "somehow've" wasn't recognized as a word. You don't know me, spell check!