Life Buffering: Why I Unsubscribed From Netflix (A Small Existential Crisis)

It is fair to say that I am not an adventurous person. Not a risk-taker. Not a pioneer. I can recall no instance where I was the first to do anything. So, true to form, several weeks behind the crowd, today, finally today, I cancelled my Netflix subscription. Partly due to cost, partly due to boredom, but mostly due to NASA.

You see, and I realise this isn’t much of a revelation, NASA recently released some fairly mind-blowing images captured by their James Webb Space Telescope. You most likely saw them when I did too. Or perhaps you didn’t. Perhaps you saw them the day after. Or the day after that. Perhaps you were too busy doing something else at the time. Something interesting. Something worthwhile. I was not, which, it turns out, is a bit of a theme. Anyway, apparently these images show the deepest ever view of the universe, revealing thousands of galaxies as they appeared billions of years ago (actual galaxies and not chorizo). In short (because I have absolutely zero in-depth takes on this), it’s the furthest back, both in time and distance, that humans have ever seen. So, just a little bit impressive then.

But what if, I pondered upon viewing the images, having swiftly replaced awe with horror…. what if aliens are taking similar pictures of the Milky Way right now (ignoring the fact that NASA’s images are not of “now” because frankly I can’t really get my head round that notion anyway)? What if they then zoomed in on said pictures (directly to my house because that’s exactly how that would work)? Man, what an anti-climax that would be. What if they could see me misspending my life watching endless TV shows on Netflix? On a computer screen. In a cupboard. To explain — I have an office in a walk-in cupboard off my living room. It’s an office in the same way that you might describe a shelf as a library. I.e., it’s not and it’s tiny. It’s supposed to be just for work, but I appear to have moved in. I mean, there’s a possibility our alien friends would instead see me pottering about my flat, adjusting the angle of a vase until it is “just so” or faffing about hanging pictures. Because that is definitely the kind of vanity-driven, unnecessary shit I do. But more likely they’d see me sat there, in my cupboard, staring vacantly at a computer monitor. Because that is also the kind of shit I do. A lot. The kind of shit that I’m guilty of using my precious time for. And I do feel guilty. Regretful. Ill at ease. And then I distract myself from said feelings by watching more Netflix.

The aliens would wonder, perhaps, is that what the humans do? Apparently so. Is that what’s important to them? Definitely not. And yet I have spent far too much time over the last few years on this type of behaviour. “Perfecting” my environment and watching stuff in it. Watching. Not participating. I watch. I scroll. I “like”. I don’t engage. Passive, passive, passive. Potter some more. Watch some more. On repeat.

I should stress, Netflix is not to blame for this sorry state of stagnation. It is merely an enabler. I am to blame. It turns out that the combination of an INTJ personality and a period of illness, followed immediately by a pandemic, does not a healthy lifestyle make.

At least during lockdown, Netflix served a purpose. Watching TV was a welcome distraction and something to talk about when we had no stories of note — if we were lucky — to relay ourselves. (It turns out I wasn’t in the learn a new language or pick up a new skill brigade. I know, I was shocked too.) And so, watch I did. UK shows, US shows, shows from Sweden, Denmark, Finland, Norway, Germany, Belgium, France, Spain…you get the idea. If it had subtitles and involved crime, I was all over it. “Have you watched anything good?” my sister would ask? The thing is, had I? Rarely. Sometimes they were good. Sometimes they were very good. But often they weren’t (it’s amazing how amenable I am when the language and/or scenery is different). Often, they just passed time. Or rather, used up time. Wasted time. If I tried to write a list of all the titles I’ve watched, I doubt I’d remember a quarter. Occasionally, I’ll see a still from a show and know I’ve watched it but even upon looking it up can barely remember the hours spent zoning out to it. I have been spoiled to distraction.

The pandemic goes on, but we are now much freer to do and be things beyond watching other people pretend to do and be things. A theory I’ve been failing to put fully into practice. Don’t get me wrong, there have been attempts to do more worthy things. Art, writing, reading, seeing actual people etc. But they’ve all been slowed or stalled by lazier tasks, with watching TV top of the list. The Netflix aid/crutch of the pandemic has become an excuse/hindrance. The trouble is the lure of introvertism is powerful. Being alone is my default setting. I enjoy it. You can do all sorts of interesting, fulfilling and worthwhile stuff on your own. You can also, as is now all too clear to me, spend months doing very little beyond consuming online content. Alone. Which is the key bit. No one can judge me living my best/worst WALL-E life if they can’t see it. So, here I am, triggered, it seems, by hypothetical peeping-tom aliens, judging myself instead. And my finding is that I have become stuck, dependent on a lifestyle I don’t even like. One that doesn’t serve me. And that definitely doesn’t serve those close to me. I recently heard someone on YouTube (you know, when I was watching more stuff) advising people to stop returning to the “dry well”. It was in reference to returning to bad personal relationships, and though I’m generally loath to share such banalities, it seems annoyingly apt here too. I keep going back to old unfulfilling habits, confusing familiarity with contentment. The usual bedfellow of contempt only now beginning to surface.

Indeed, recently I’ve been abandoning shows that I found to be dull, illogical, poorly acted (hello Lincoln Lawyer) or flawed in some other distracting way, in favour of reading an online summary or review instead. To more efficiently get said show out the way. Like watching it, or rather, completing it, is a chore I need to tick off my list. Except the list is trivial. Not to mention never-ending. Which I appreciate should be obvious, but my behaviour indicates otherwise. I mean, I’m never going to catch up with all the shows ever made and that continue to be made. More to the point, I never used to try. There was a (better) time not so long ago when I didn’t consider watching people play let’s pretend to be a valid lifestyle choice.

Of course, I realise other — interesting, infinitely superior — people are unlikely to be as addicted as me. There is undoubtedly a healthy relationship with Netflix to be had. A normal amount of viewing. A happy medium. But, having veered off that reasonable road many miles back, something more radical was needed to break the habit. Radical. Ah, yes, that well-known radical move of unsubscribing. The first of all first world problems. I’m such a tool. Really, please don’t think I’m unaware of it. A whole article about watching too much TV indeed. (Maybe it’s best I continue with my viewing rut, otherwise this overthinking walking stagnation could be boring you in person instead. The actual horror. I just need to remember how to present myself, shave my legs, listen (possibly not in that order). I digress.)

So, having hit that Netflix cancellation button, what am I going to do now? No longer disrespecting the opportunities I’ve been given seems as good a place as any to start. And recognising all the ways in which I am so fortunate. I have excellent friends and family, I live in a nice enough area in a nice enough flat, and my good health has returned. Many are not so lucky, including those who have been shielding for years. And yet who are no doubt still trying to make the most of it. I don’t have such limitations forced upon me; I can do pretty much anything I want. But for too long now I’ve chosen not to. I’ve chosen not to make the most of it. What an epitaph. “Here lies Jennifer. She chose not to make the most of it.” The ultimate of errors. One life. One small window of time of unknown length. (Oh, how easily I forget this.) It seems pretty shameful to spend such a significant proportion of it watching TV. Unless, of course, that brings you joy. Unless that’s totally your thing. In which case, absolutely crack on. After much, much research, however, it turns out it’s not mine.

So here ends the sloth era. No more languishing. Much more socialising, writing, painting, exploring, learning. I expect I will falter. I know I will falter. After all, I still have too many screens in my house and there are many other streaming services available. Most of the free ones involve watching adverts though and that should, hopefully, be deterrent enough. There are also DVDs. But The Wire — i.e., a series definitely worthy of my time — has been sitting on my TV unit, waiting to be watched, for an entire decade. The act of opening the DVD case and putting the disc into a machine apparently exceeding my viewing effort threshold. I doubt that will change anytime soon. So, more activity and less passivity it is. And when I can’t think of anything to do, bring on the boredom. For boredom leads to creativity. Or at least attempts to create, to make new connections, to have new experiences. To living. To purpose. To progress (or a sense of it at any rate).

As I reach this overly earnest conclusion, it suddenly occurs to me that this whole article is essentially the Why Don’t You theme in long-form. Like that’s a bad thing.

So, farewell Netflix. It was fun. Until it wasn’t. And thank you NASA for the much-needed perspective. Now just to ditch my doom-scrolling addiction. Then I’ll be at that Maslow peak for sure.