My name is Karin and I’m a television-aholic.

I’ve gone 22 minutes without touching the remote.

I’m trembling as I type. Concentration is difficult, but … I … must … concentrate. There are decisions to make. Serious decisions. All these season finales and leading-up-to the season finales. Do I watch Boston Legal or House? ER or Without a Trace? Criminal Minds or Lost?

I’m ashamed of myself. How did I allow this addiction to spiral so completely out of control? Not so long ago, I only had basic cable and seldom bothered to watch any shows. For years I went to bed about the same time as my daughter, so I didn’t realize what I was missing until a year and a half ago, when I married Geoff.

I’m not blaming my husband, though. No, I’m solidly putting the blame where it most deserves to be — on NBC. They’re the ones who made Law & Order. They’re who led me astray. Who got me hooked. All it took was a little Law & Order one night a week to give me the taste, to make me want more. That soulless network had already recognized the addictive nature of its product and upped the production, knowing the addicts would consume every bit. First came SVU, then Criminal Intent. Before I realized what was happening, I was no longer trying to cure my insomnia problem. I was happy to have it. Happy.

Happy because now, along with my new husband, I’d gotten cable. Real cable. Cable that could provide me with more Law & Order, which seemed to be running 24 hours a day.

Predictably, though, one addiction led to another. It began to take more shows — newer and flashier shows — to feed my craving. First came CSI, then 24, then Lost. Before I knew it, I was buying entire past seasons on DVD.

I was beginning to show the typical signs of addiction. The bloodshot eyes. The callused thumb. The broadening backside. The inability to use a light switch, determined to use a flashlight instead. The Pavlovian palpitations upon hearing the phrase, “In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups.”

For years before I succumbed, I believed all the talk about the dumbing-down of
America, claiming the boob tube was turning us into a nation of drooling bobbleheads. I suppose that’s why I was caught so completely off guard when I began sampling primetime and saw evidence of well-thought-out, well-written and well-acted shows. I was expecting Mad Dog 20/20 and found Dom Perignon instead.

And it made me want more.

Not only were the dramas better than most I’d seen in the past, but the sitcoms were far more intelligent, too. My Name Is Earl and The Office are in a whole different league than Happy Days and Laverne & Shirley. Even many of the shows I don’t care for, like Fear Factor or The Bachelor, are still better quality and more entertaining than, say, The Newlywed Game or The $10,000 Pyramid. I’m grateful there are still plenty of shows that don’t interest me in the least, and grateful, too, that the networks seem to save their best shows for after 9 p.m., so my addiction hasn’t made me a negligent mother.

It wasn’t until recently, with all the dramatic season finales, that I begun to recognize the extent of my madness. I stopped answering the phones. Refused to make after-work plans unless guaranteed they’d be over by 9.

If the rest of my family wasn’t as addicted as me, I suspect they’d have planned an intervention, but it was up to me alone to overcome.

If I attempt to wean myself during television’s summer hiatus, it just might work. I’m optimistic about this treatment plan I’ve developed. After all, what’s better for a television addict than a new “program”?

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