If it's Sunday, it must be Desperate Housewives!

OK, I am a slave to network TV. I didn't set out to do this to myself, and yes, I do know how to use my VCRs, well, one of them, but it just seems such a hassle. So I settle into my comfort foam and down pillow with my handy-dandy remote within reach, tea steaming on my bedside table, book in hand, dog curled at my side, and veg out with Susan and Bree and Lynette and Danielle. It is what I live for. This is probably pretty sad, and emblematic of the size of my life these days, which is pretty damned small. Not that I am feeling sorry for myself, oh nonono. I am thrilled at this tiny, sweet existence. My days of going out six nights a week to party and raise hell are so over. Also the days of walking the floor with a colicky baby, or laying awake listening to the Westminster chimes, waiting for a teenager to come home. And ditto the days of waking eight times a night to snores and grunts and tumultuous flopping about of a restless partner. I also don't get up all that early any more. No long commute, six months of it in darkness, one way or the other (I wore out three sets of headlights on my first miniscule Ford). No one lying in wait to heap another task on my bulging inbox. No more lists of tasks to tick off and start all over again, month by endless month. Yes, I will take network TV till 11 pm any day. It is the payoff for getting old. I mean, older.