My problem with Netflix

Whoever invented Netflix is a genius.

I would suppose that’s why a ton of other programs, like Shomi and Crave TV that provide bulks of movies and television series to be watched from the comfort of our home, computer-or TV-are now booming. Right in time for winter, too.

Not so genius, however, are the people that get sucked in to the $7.99 warp of over-consumption of what these programs offer. But at such low costs, it’s hard not to. Less than $10 for unlimited access to entertainment? Sign me up.

And I did sign myself up.

When Netflix first came out, I avoided subscription as if it were the plague. I thought, why on earth would I pay to sit and watch marathons of television shows when I barely use my television?

Why would I sacrifice precious hours of my day that I could be outside, you know, doing actual stuff, as opposed to being inside watching people do stuff for me?

But on second hand, that didn’t sound like such a bad idea.

And that, precisely, is my problem with Netflix.

Netflix has preyed on the weakness of many North American and western world inhabitants-boredom.

Boredom is what makes social media the big deal that it is. It sells itself to us as being “social” and “progressive” when all it’s done is allow everyone to have a say and then argue over who’s opinion is the most correct. They call it social but true, authentic communication doesn’t happen through a screen.

Boredom is what makes people fat. It’s what makes us believe that eating is productive, and junk food is a real activity, a past-time of sorts.

Boredom is what makes people shop. It reminds us of all the things that we could use in our house like a potato peeler and maybe another mirror for the hallway and ou! Another jewelry organizer!

Boredom is what makes kids play unhealthy amounts of video games, so bored of playing them that they don’t even recognize that their boredom is now dressed as a habit.

Yet, the convenience of it is marketed to us in such a way that we come to believe that it truly is the greatest thing to happen. What’s better than a night in with Netflix and snacks? What’s cheaper than that?

When I first converted, I authorized my credit card for the monthly payment thinking of all the money I would save by staying in and binge watching television shows that I had missed out on because I never had any interest in them. But now, suddenly, with the opportunity to watch all six seasons of Gossip Girl, I cared about the rather pathetic series that only grew to be more pathetic and addictive, followed by all four seasons of Pretty Little Liars.

I learned something about myself, and probably many other Netflix subscribers while locking myself in my room under my blankets day in and day out:

It isn’t about enjoying the show, it’s about finishing it.

It’s as if each finished episode was another race I ran, each season was the marathon, and the completion of each show was a trophy I would put on my imaginary shelf of what I did, or didn’t do, rather, with my Christmas break.

The reality set in when I had looked at my crumpled up “Holiday Bucket List” a few nights before school started.

Go ice skating.

Visit the Christmas Market,

Watch a Christmas movie.

Drink hot chocolate. With marshmallows.

Write.

Perhaps it was the fact that throughout my entire break, I hadn’t written a thing that made me the most disappointed in myself (and in the creator of Netflix). Here I am wanting to be some big famous writer and journalist, but I was cooped up in a mess of blankets wishing Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass would just be together already.

“Ariana Huffington didn’t make it laying down watching Netflix,” my trusty inside-the-head-voice mocked.

And for the umpteenth time, it was right.

We live in a world where kids don’t ride their bikes outside as much as they used to. You don’t see children playing double-dutch . And do they even sell chalk in stores anymore, you know, for hop scotch?

There are just so many distractions that don’t require us to even think that we’ve succumbed to a very passive way of living, if we can even call it that anymore. Sadly, we have to remind ourselves not to give in to the distractions that keep us from engaging with life.

We have to remind ourselves there is life outside of other people’s lives, one especially worth living, no matter how cold or expensive. There are memories to be made.

I promise you that in five years, you will not be sharing the story of that time that you laid in bed and watched Netflix and nothing epic happened.

So don’t give up your subscription just yet; watch an episode here and there. But let’s not forget about how beautiful life is, not the scripted in some studio with a shitty cast that didn’t do the book justice. But the life that we’ve created for ourselves, and continue to create every time we do something; insignificant or remarkable.

Perhaps my problem is just that I have very little self-control when it comes to these things. That’s why my life so far has been so memorable. Because I act on impulse, and sometimes it’s the best damn thing ever. Other times it’s the worst. But it’s always a lesson, and it’s always a memory.

There are probably a lot of amazing series out there. Maybe I’m biased because I filled my head with the two most insulting shows. But I guarantee you that there is no show better than the one about your life. Where the cast is your friends and family. The setting is wherever you go. It’s actually unpredictable. And the best part?

You’re the star.

A Letter From a "Skinny Bitch"

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Few things are more frustrating than annoying songs that are hauntingly catchy.

So you can imagine why I nearly jumped out the window recently after a car ride with my mom when she turned Meghan Trainor’s “All About That Bass” all the way up on the way to our destination.

My mom, a proud plus-sized woman always loves a song that encourages women to feel comfortable in their skin. But as the lyrics marched their way into my ears, I was slightly frustrated at how this artist, who I’ve never heard of before, went about doing that.

The song refers to slim women as “skinny bitches”. Trainor determines that skinny women think they’re fat. She also assumes that skinny women don’t have booties, can’t shake them, and a few other pieces of nonsense not worth repeating, but certainly worth discussing.

I love a cold hard case of irony. But this is the type of irony really gets me questioning society. The same society, in fact, that people seem to be so hell-bent on fixing, despite contributing to the issues while on their quest for change.

Here’s a little anecdote:

Growing up, I had to drink nutritional supplements in addition to my meals because I was what Trainor called, a skinny bitch, even in my adolescence. I ate a fair portion of meat, vegetables, and every other food group, often in excess. Truthfully, I still do. But I am constantly told that I am envied, disliked, and even hated (yes, really) for my body’s ability to ingest food and not suffer typical consequences of weight gain.

The sad part of the story is that during my transition into teenage-hood, I had heard that I was “too boney”, “too scrawny” and “too mawga” (a name for skinny in West Indian culture) so often that I did actually believe that something was wrong with me. I actually believed that I needed to gain pounds and have curves and that I was ugly.

So when I heard this song, I just got fed up with it all. I guess I just thought society was past referring to excess fat as “junk”, be it in the trunk or any other part of the vehicle. I also assumed, perhaps wrongly, that not all skinny women need to be likened to Barbie dolls. Are we still on that? And lastly, I was really hoping that after the word skinny, did not come the word bitch.

But sadly, women as a whole are on our way to being society’s bitch, if we’re not already there. We do exactly what we’re told. Collectively, women spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on breast implants, Botox, medications to slow the natural process of aging, and diet pills. And we just keep going in whichever direction society’s wind blows when they tell us that big boobs are sexy, but not too big of course, that’s gross. Or skinny is sexy, but if you’re too skinny, you’re anorexic. Or short hair is sexy, but only if it’s styled a certain way…

I imagine that there are readers wondering who I think I am to be criticizing this emerging phenomenon of skinny-bashing. In fact, discussing this blog idea with a few friends yesterday, one of them said:

“Ugh, fat people have been bashed by skinny people for like, ever. Nicki Minaj came out with her song calling skinny girls bitches and now everyone’s upset.”

In a weird way, she made the exact point I was trying to.

Do we have to get even before we can stand as a united front against the real enemy?

I mean, who wins when women hate each other based on these differences? Certainly it can’t be our sisterhood, which is more crucial than ever in fighting off the opposition we face from in our domestic lives, the workplace, and in the public sphere. Better yet, who causes this disconnection amongst women? How have we, for years and years, let men dictate what and who is beautiful? How have we relinquished control on how we appear naturally, and furthermore, how that is perceived and accepted by society?

But most importantly, how long is this going to go on?

The same friend also said, "I still think anyone that takes offence to skinny-bashing is extremely ridiculous."

And from that came a point I wasn't expecting to make, but certainly need to.

What determines how a person is entitled to feel about how they are made to feel by society? Are my feelings automatically excluded from this discourse because I'm skinny? If so, I find that type of silencing method to be very tragic.

I got to a point where I, like many plus-sized women have at one point in their lives or another and said screw it, this is who I am.

My question is: why is that such a bad thing?

I cannot train my body any differently than the average person can on what to do with what it is fed. I cannot dictate to my metabolism what pace to digest the food I eat at. And I cannot for the life of me pack on pounds any faster than you can shed them.

I have interesting and very old news for everyone that assumes the same thing Meghan Trainor or Nicki Minaj does.

1. We do not think we're fat.

2. We are not all anorexic Barbie wannabes.

3. We are not all bitches.

Ultimately, it’s getting harder and harder to feel beautiful. Not to be beautiful, but to really and truly feel that we are. And to every woman out there who can still look in the mirror and find something she doesn’t feel the need to fix, I applaud you.

But for all the people, men and women, who in some way contribute to the never ending list of why women aren’t good enough no matter what they do with their bodies and themselves, and to everyone that ever told me I was “too this” or “too that”, in similar words to Tyra Banks:

Kiss my skinny ass.