Coach Taylor Ruined My New Year’s Resolutions

Is the New Year’s resolution window closed yet? Because, on that topic, I have good news and bad news.

Good news: I have resolutions. I gave them a lot of thought and I mean(t) business.

Bad news: I’m getting derailed.

More good news: I have someone to blame.

Coach Taylor.

Yeah, him. Of the Dillon, Texas Panthers. Of my current Friday Night Lights Netflix bender.

It’s no secret that I’m constantly behind when it comes to the shows that everyone is watching. The singular exception is Lost, which I watched in real time, but I can’t talk about it right now because I’m still sad that it’s over and, frankly, my brain still hurts like hell from trying to process the last season.

But let’s have a look at what I’ve missed in recent years:

• 24
• Game of Thrones
• Homeland (yes, really)
• Mad Men
• Parenthood
• How I Met Your Mother
• Downton Abbey
• Orange is the New Black
• House of Cards
• The Walking Dead

Sad but true. Can we still be friends? Just spare me your lectures about what I’m missing – I’ve heard them all. I may not be able to talk about any of these shows, but don’t think I haven’t noticed that there hasn’t been a new Paw Patrol episode in months. I do wonder why the guys at Nick Jr. are holding out. Even my two year-old is all eyeroll-y with the repeats and relentless character merchandising.

Moving on.

Speaking of the two year-old, when he was an infant and never, ever, ever slept, I ended up using those crazy middle-of-the-night-hours-long feeding sessions as my first binge watching bender. I got sucked into Walter White’s world of Breaking Bad, and my poor child will probably end up on a therapy couch someday with fleeting memories of his infancy spent in front of TV meth labs and Jesse Pinkman.

It was a great time.

And when it was over, I took about a two-year break from Netflix. Said hiatus recently came to a distinct halt toward the end of Christmas break, when my husband and I decided to give Friday Night Lights a try. You know, just an episode or two.

Or three or four. Per night.

Which brings me to the swift demise of my New Year’s resolutions. Let’s have a look.

Go to bed earlier. I told myself that 2016 would be the year when I would stop staying up so late. I would get six to seven hours of sleep each night, not five or less. But now what the hell can I do? Tim Riggins has been drinking again and Buddy Garrity got punched out by his mistress and don’t even get me started on Landry and Tyra. I need to know. Clear eyes, full heart, can’t sleep (current time: 12:46am).

Stress less. I was going to stop sweating the small stuff this year. It was time to stop getting myself all worked up. But Coach Taylor and his wife have really given me a good look at the special fun of raising a combative teenage daughter. And really, their 16 year-old has solidified, like a cold and hard cement, every single fear I have about that entire stretch of parenting that will greet me in the next ten years. Also, where is Smash going to play college ball? My blood pressure can’t deal.

Blog more. No more stretches of weeks at a time without writing. 2016 will be a downright prolific year, I said. More focus and energy on doing what I really love. But, shit, it’s so hard to type while I’m watching this show. I just had to rewind that last conversation between Riggins and Street like three times. I can’t afford to lose momentum like this, or I’ll only get in two episodes a night.

Put down the phone. I can’t say I was going to surrender my iPhone and cancel my social media accounts, but I had made a mental commitment to tone it all down. Well, you know how a show is better when you can chat about it with someone? I mean, my husband is watching it with me, but all he really wants to know is where Minka Kelly has been all of his life. I had to go straight to my friend Melody, who is also watching FNL (albeit a few seasons ahead of me) and is responsible for talking me into this life of high school football insanity. The price she must pay for bringing me into the Dillon vacuum is to text with me about the pressing questions on this show (Why do they all have perfect teeth? Do the Panthers ever go into halftime in a winning position? Why didn’t my high school have pep rallies like this?). So much for my light phone usage.

It’s funny when I get reactions from people about the show. You know, people who didn’t have to use a Flux Capacitor to time travel and watch it, but who were cool enough circa 2006 to get on board. They get nostalgic and wistful for those times. I can’t tell if they’re happy for me, or jealous, or maybe both.

“You’re only on season two? Ohmygod, you have so much in front of you. Cherish every moment. Once it’s over, it’s over.”

“I couldn’t say goodbye to those kids. I couldn’t. I wish I could start it over again.”

“BEST. SHOW. EVERRRRRRR.”

“Riggins!”

Yes, I’m only on season two and I have already been emotionally put through the damn wringer. When my husband called yesterday afternoon and said he had a last-minute work dinner, I should have thought about several things – like why I bothered to cook or who was going to take the dog out in the freezing cold. But, no. My absolute first/only/urgent thought was that I had to get the Netflix account info from him so I could set it up  on my phone and not just on his. Because who wants to be left in this state of vulnerability? No woman should be that dependent on a man.

Then he launched into the whole debate about me getting an episode or 62 ahead of him. But I’m stuck home with three kids and he’s having beers and steak in the city. The unspoken truth (unless you’re me, in which case the unspoken part doesn’t count) is that I win.

Marriage is complicated.

But so is high school football in Texas.