For months, my TiVo has been recording Desperate Housewives. My wife and I set up the timer early last year, when we were together, and totally into the show. Tonight, as I was cleaning off the hard drive and deleting old stuff, I discovered I have the entire new season stored and ready to watch.
Desperate Housewives is a show a man will watch with a woman, but not likely on his own. It's way too much like a soap opera, and not exactly testosterone-friendly viewing. I found it difficult, however, to delete them... because part of me DID enjoy the show - and that Eva Longoria is quite the sexy little tart...
Oh, yes. Eva Longoria...
Where was I? So as my finger was on the DELETE button, I stopped short. I am comfortable with my masculinity, why not have a looksy? Seems I can faintly remember where last season left off... so I hit PLAY.
An hour later, I'm sitting on the floor in front of a roaring fire with a pile of pillows and a cup of hot chocolate with Godiva liquer in it. I'm talking to myself, caddily criticizing the slutty outfit Edie Britt is wearing and wondering why Mike Delfino can't do something different with that hair.
It's a wonder I didn't give myself a pedicure and cucumber mask. When I looked around and realized what was happening, it had the same sobering effect as one would get seeing The Rock in a pilates class.
Sadly, the story you've just read is true. Except for a couple of minor details. Nobody's perfect... that would be the message I want to get across to my friends, who are likely thinking really absurd thoughts about me right now.