As I was growing up, the only people who binged were those unfortunate souls who were anorexic and/or bulimic. They binged on food. While I have always, well, let’s say enjoyed my food, I can’t say that I’ve ever binged in that way.
These days, while food binging is still a thing, the term is generally used in reference to watching programs on streaming television, one right after another.
My nephew Carter recently binge-watched Death in Paradise, which left Netflix on July 31. He was determined to see all of the programs before they went away, and he was successful. My sister Bec — his nana — commented on his having successfully watched all of the programs. His response was that the idea of watching one program on, say Monday night, and then having to wait until the next Monday to watch it again like she had to do when she was a kid seemed weird. She didn’t have the nerve to tell him that in those days, she had to get up from the couch and walk over to the television to change the channel. She didn’t think his heart could take it.
When I first retired, I rarely watched daytime television. And then, one day, I started watching a television program — it might have been The Closer — and I discovered binge-watching. I believe there are seven seasons of that program, and I sat there and watched one program after another. I didn’t finish all the seasons in one day, but over the course of a week or two, I watched them all. And then I binge-watched Endeavor. And Downton Abbey. And Broadchurch. And Grace and Frankie. And The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. I was off to the races.
Bill doesn’t understand binge-watching television. Frankly, for the most part, he can’t imagine sitting in a chair for several hours and watching television when he could be out cutting up the hot tub or installing wood floors. Go figure. He will walk by my chair on his way to the garage, and shake his head. My back is to him, but I know he’s doing it.
Right now I’m binge-watching Midsommer Murders. That’s glorious fun, because there are 19 full seasons on Netflix. NINETEEN. I watch one or two programs a day. I adore British PBS mysteries. I love that the police never have guns. They crash into an apartment in which they know there is a bad guy, and there is nary a gun to be seen. They simply pummel the bad guy who just lays there and takes it. While the murderers occasionally use a gun to do their dastardly deed, for the most part, they prefer bashing in the victims’ heads with Things Very British like cricket bats or crochet mallets. They also love a good poison.
Having said all of the above, I will admit — to Carter’s chagrin if he knew — that there is one program that I watch live every Friday night, commercials notwithstanding. I love to watch Blue Bloods on Friday night right when it’s happening. My sister Jen and I will text during the show, seeing if we can be the first one to hear Frank Reagan sigh.