I remember when I was a kid watching TV with my family. A commercial for Playtex “Cross Your Heart” bras would come on. Network censorship rules were conservative back then, so they had to settle for showing a woman wearing one on top of her clothing. As the announcer described how the pointy-looking the Playtex bra “lifts and separates,” my brothers and I maintained rapt attention. My dad was never comfortable around such matters, especially if my sister was present. He’d squirm in his seat and say something like “How about those Tigers?” As his voice trailed off, he sensed the Tigers didn’t stand much of a chance against lifting and separating.
Back then, TV shows were equally innocuous. Shows fell into four categories: (1) variety shows, (2) spy shows, (3) situation comedies, and (4) westerns. Today we’re lucky and modern. With hundreds of channels, we can now see: (1) Time-Life promoting singers who may be dead, but their music lives on, (2) re-runs of NCIS, NCIS Los Angeles, NCIS New Orleans, etc. (3) situation comedies that rely on bodily functions and men getting hit in the crotch, and (4) reality shows.
I hate reality shows.
Just to see how bad it could get, I recently caught a few episodes of a reality show on the Discovery Channel called “Naked and Afraid.” Each show begins with a man and woman, who have never met, getting dropped off in the jungle. Their first task is to get “naked and afraid.” In order to get sufficiently “naked and afraid,” they must do what? They must take off their clothes! The TV audience is all geared up for lots of “naked and afraid” stuff. But disappointment looms. The cameraman has smeared Vaseline on his lens. He has other tricks up his sleeve, such as arranging the cameo appearance of a wild elephant that blocks everyone’s view at the most inopportune moment.
To win “Naked and Afraid,” the contestants must jointly reach the safety of base camp, miles away. To get there, they’ll have to trudge through alligator-invested swamps, stay clear of killer Anacondas, fend off mosquitos the size of Air Force drones – and did we mention – remain “naked and afraid.” They’ll be alone, too – except for the camera crew, director, producer, medic, elephant trainer, and the ever-present blob of pixelization that follows them like a swarm of bees.
As the days pass, our “naked and afraid” couple becomes even more “naked and afraid.” They eat termites and have grubs for dessert. Both suffer from oozing open sores, dehydration, hunger, and dry mouth. One wants to call it quits; the other wants to push on. When it appears all is lost, they serendipitously discover a cache of donuts, carelessly left behind by the script writers. With their energy renewed, they dash to the finish line, making it by the hair on their chinny-chin-butts.
As the show ends and credits roll, I take solace in that I’ve never been “naked and afraid.” I mash buttons on my remote until one of them turns off the TV. My mind drifts to when I watched TV as a kid.
I ponder lifting and separating.