I'm almost 51. That should tell you a lot about me.
Besides the sagging, drooping, thinning, sweating, and chilling, I can't sleep. Sometimes I just lay awake and my active perimenopausal mind relives every perceived wrong that has been committed against me during my tragic life and I plot revenge.
Once I am satisfied with the thought of Seth dangling by his toes from a tree, I go ahead and get up and wander through the house looking for something to do.
That's how I found out that the best of television is aired after midnight.
It's a smorgasbord of programming junk food. There are documentaries about people who weigh 600 pounds. There are shows about how science and smart detective work can solve perplexing crimes. And there is a lineup of excellent infomercials about exercise, cooking appliances, or pimples.
But I find myself drawn, like a fly to manure, to programs about people who have strange obsessions. I can't seem to stop myself. I am sure it is some form of morbid curiosity like when people slow down to gawk at auto accidents.
The hoarders fascinate me. They walk across mountains of debris in their house and sob to the camera about how they are in danger of losing their kids or their pets or their home. They also describe their emotional attachment to waxy Q-tips and empty Starburst wrappers. One woman had a young son who had started to imitate her behavior. He kept everything, even the packaging that his toys came in. He couldn't let go, even saying about a stuffed animal that he never played with, "he is too fragile, but I LOVE him....'
And I haven't mentioned the other obsession program that detailed the life of a woman who grooms...literally....her cat. As in licks. She licks her cat every day. Because she likes to eat hair.