Occasionally I have found myself riding the turbulent waters of self pity, the kind of which leads nowhere but to doubt, restlessness and even a touch of sadness. I think medically it might best be described as a serious overdose of television, to the point of televisionitis. There is no known cure for this, except to put the index finger through a punching exercise. It is the only effective action to be taken before dialing 911.

Just the other night I had sunk to the bottom of despair, frantically grasping at the proverbial straws of misty hope when I was handed the only possible antidote, the remote control. To my great relief the batteries were good. The off button worked. Amazingly the feeling of bugs crawling on me disappeared, my clamminess cleared and my vision returned. I began asking myself what happened? How did I fall into such agony? Then my mind grasped the reality of the moment. It seemed so obvious. I should have recognized the situation before the attack defeated me.

The horror still sweeps over me when I realize how close I came to total melt-down. You see, I was minding my own business, there in the sanctity of my own living room, my palace, my little corner of the world when the attack came. Three car commercials in a row! Two lawyers back to back, telling me my insurance company is out to get me! A medicine that will surely make me sleep better (I was not aware I was having difficulty sleeping) followed by a warning advising me of all the terrible side effects caused by that medication. I was a wreck! At last, the program resumed only to have the straw I was grasping for turn out to be the one that broke the camel's backhellip;rather, my emotional back. The sound that dwarfed the invasion of the commercials was really coming from a hopeful contestant vying for a spot on American Idol.

It was too much. I wish to thank the person who invented the off button on the remote control.