I can't watch another episode of Breaking Bad
My comfort zone is in shambles.
OVERHEARD IN THE LECTURE HALL
Student 1: Are we doing the writing assignment today?
Student 2: Yes. Aren’t you excited?
Student 1: I tried to read the text. But I don’t understand it.
Not being able to watch Breaking Bad has nothing to do with all the crystal meth smoking.
Though, admittedly, I still get that taste in the back of my throat whenever a character takes a deep, satisfying haul from a glass pipe.
No, it’s all T.S. Eliot now. And that other ancient poet who wrote about the ‘tyger’ that burned brightly.
I know making all these literary allusions is going to come off as a little pretentious. Honestly, given the choice, I’d rather be binging Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul and Pluribus and, God, just give me some Bachelor in Paradise, already.
As far as media consumption goes, that was my comfort zone for the last year or so.
Before that, it was a rented room or stairwell or trap house — anywhere that I could anesthetize myself indefinitely. I was broken good.
At first, the change of venue to my mother’s house discomfited me greatly.
Smoothies, swimming, watching whatever and waking up whenever — it all took some getting used to.
But as long as I didn’t smoke crack, and occasionally went to a recovery meeting, nothing else was expected of me. And it didn’t take long for this life to become my new comfort zone.
But I kept hearing the same refrain at those recovery meetings. In order to grow, you have to get outside of our comfort zone. It makes sense. I grew plenty when I gave up my crack-ish comforts.
The prospect of going back to school represented an entirely new sphere of discomfort. I get the idea of changing things up. But, come on, I’ve just spent a couple of decades as a street-seasoned addict. Surely, I get to snuggle up to Netflix for a few years. I’m healing!
Besides, when they talk about leaving your comfort zone, they’re never clear about exactly what that means. How much is too much? What about dragging me outside right now to perform open mic at the local comedy club in my pajamas? Imagine the growth spurt! Stretch marks on the soul.
It could also prove fatal.
At first, a return to school seemed like a more subtle means of edging outside my zone. After all, I’d been a student before. Seven years of higher education — before, of course, I enrolled in the highest education and almost died.
The thing is, I might as well have performed naked at the club. School has nuked my comfort zone. Even now, I’d like to finish this blog and — please, please, please can I just get one episode in?
Nope. I’ll transcribe notes from today’s lectures. Then I’ll try to decipher Patty Krawec for the morning discussion. And there’s an in-class writing assignment tomorrow on The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. I’d better read that again and try a little harder to figure out what the fuck is going on.
When I first started reading again, my brain pleaded with me to give it up. Let other non-ex-crack smokers take up literacy.
How do I read? Okay… start from the left and move to the right, slowly edging to the bottom of the page. And all the time, in the back of my head, Walter White was calling from the TV. Just one episode.
I remembered a prof’s words from earlier this week:
“That moment when you don’t understand. When your brain struggles to figure out what’s being expressed. You keep looking at the same page over and over again. At that very moment, your brain is forging a new pathway. It’s called learning.”
New pathways sounded like the story of my second life.
Maybe if I forge just one tonight, I’ll have time for a quick episode.
But something a little easier on my over-taxed mind. Something comfortable. Like Mormon Wives. Perfect. And five minutes in, I’ll be fast asleep.
I get it now. I don't have time for Breaking Bad any more.
Because I've broken boredom.