Thursday, April 20, 2006

Sorry, ya LOST me...

I watched the first three episodes of Season One of LOST yesterday during my unfortunate incarceration/bed rest. I had heard that it was amazing. I had been told that it was superb television. I had watched the chilling previews.

I don't think I like it.

I'm not giving up yet, but I am having serious trouble "suspending my disbelief" especially when someone gets eaten - Jurassic Park-style - and another shoots a polar bear - on a desserted island.

I'm trying. I really am.

I will watch at least four more episodes in an attempt to get "hooked."

But I have my doubts.

Not to blame the show, but I'm just a one-type of tv kinda gal. Let's look at my all-time faves:

1. Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Teenage girl is the "chosen one" to destroy evil and save humanity while still trying to be "normal" and kick butt in cute shoes.

2. Dawson's Creek: Teenage hormones cross a creek and enter through bedroom windows.

3. Saved By the Bell (when it was still "good"): Teenage kids in a school try not to look like they're 30.

4. 90210: See above.

5. One Tree Hill: Teenagers partake in love triangles, cheerleading and basketball - it's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, World.

So, in other words, maybe the only shows that can truly entertain me are the ones that deal with high-school angst.

I truly think that my id has never matured past thirteen, therefore, my inner-self will not let me "enjoy" any show without a titled teenage character. Let's hope that my outsides continue to reflect my insides.

Case in point: The nurse at Triage, frantic with her clipboard, says: "How old are ya, honey?" She's doing four things at once in a RN-kinda juggle that's perfected by people in high-stress jobs.

"Twenty-seven." I reply while one person strips me of my hooded sweatshirt, another straps on an blood-pressure cuff and a third gags me with a thermometer.

She stops - papers, pens, stethoscopes and paper clips freeze in mid-flight.

"How old?" She asks, staring me in the eye as if she could draw the truth out of my eyeballs.

"Twenty-seven" I mumble around the beeping stick in my mouth.


"No, really, I am. I just look young." I say as someone grabs the thermometer from me, unstraps my arm and tosses my sweatshirt towards my arms.

"Yes, honey. Yes you do." She looks at me wistfully and then flies back in to her state of permanent panic as I'm shoved "gently" out the door.

Smallville is on tonight. I plan on watching.

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