I hate to admit it, but I may be a creature of habit.
I get up at roughly the same time every morning. I eat meals at about the same time and usually go to bed at the same time.
I typically mow the yard on the same day each week unless rain, heat, snow, locusts or another act of God interferes.
I never considered this rigid.
I considered it organized.
Possibly dependable.
Maybe even mature.
When you live alone, your habits don’t feel like habits. They feel like the correct way to live. You get up when you get up. You eat when you eat. You sit where you sit.
There is no debate.
Every motion passes unanimously.
Being a creature of habit becomes more difficult when there is a disruptive force in the room.
And by disruptive force, I mean another person.
I discovered this during a past relationship.
I’m not a big television watcher. I don’t follow many regular programs or wait each week to learn which detective finally realizes the killer was the quiet neighbor with unusually good landscaping.
But I watch sports.
If there’s a scoreboard, a clock, a referee or a man in a striped shirt making questionable decisions, there’s a chance I’m emotionally invested.
One evening, my girlfriend and I planned a quiet night at home. Just two adults relaxing together in front of the television.
It sounded harmless.
Maybe even romantic.
I went into the kitchen to make popcorn.
In retrospect, it may have been a tactical error.
When I returned carrying the popcorn and the innocent optimism of a man who had not fully understood relationships, she had changed the channel.
To her show.
Not my game.
She had every right to watch it. This was not a hostage situation. She hadn’t seized the television through force, intimidation or international treaty.
She simply picked up the remote and changed the channel.
Apparently, that is all it takes to reveal what kind of man you really are.
I sat down, said nothing and ate popcorn.
On the outside, I was mature.
On the inside, my team was mounting a comeback — or blowing a lead.
Then she went to the kitchen for a drink.
Suddenly, I was alone.
With the remote.
Her show was still on. My game was still out there. I had perhaps 45 seconds to determine how far what I thought at the time was love actually went.
Does a person forfeit television rights upon leaving the room?
Is there a grace period?
What if I hit "previous channel," check the score and return to her show before she gets back?
Is that wrong?
Young couples should discuss these questions before becoming serious.
Forget politics, religion and finances. Those are easy.
The true compatibility test is this:
If you leave during your program, does the remote remain under your legal protection?
My dating strategy may need to be adjusted.
In the past, I asked the usual questions: Where are you from? What do you do? What do you enjoy?
Amateur hour.
Now I may need a pre-date questionnaire.
What do you watch between 7 and 9 p.m.?
Are any programs non-negotiable?
Are snacks a shared kindness or a tactical distraction?
Do you consider "previous channel" a convenience feature or evidence of emotional immaturity?
Some may call this excessive.
I call it due diligence.
Perhaps this explains why I haven’t dated in two years.
I thought I was waiting for the right woman.
Now I suspect I’m waiting for the right technology.
Maybe split-screen televisions aren’t such a bad idea after all.
— Steven Arkema
Steven Arkema is a retired correctional counselor and lifelong Iowan who writes personal humor about aging, family and the everyday situations that remind us not to take ourselves too seriously. He lives in Knoxville, Iowa, where his dog, Darby, provides both companionship and occasional column material.