A Request for Sequester from a “Lost” Fan Who Fell Behind

We’re doomed.

Husband and I, that is.

You see, tonight was the series finale of “Lost,” but we didn’t watch it. Why?

Because we haven’t caught up.

In fact, as I’m typing this I’m also watching Season 5, episode 5. I’m so confused. We’re back in time, we’re forward in time. People were dead; now they’re not. Who’s good, who’s bad? And what the heck is the smoke monster, anyway? Whenever I get just a little bit cocky thinking I have something figured out, a polar bear gives birth to one of the character’s parent’s love child, or something else equally kooky happens and I’m left swallowing my pride and possibly throwing up in my mouth a little (like when an arm is ripped off).

But it’s not going to matter in the morning, because there’s no way we’re going to be able to keep from hearing what happened. Unless, maybe, we become total shut-ins while we finish the 24 episodes we have left. No TV, no radio, and definitely no Internet. No leaving the house, period. Temporary agoraphobes, we’ll eat delivered Papa John’s pizza every night.

I’m afraid to even log on to Twitter or Facebook. I just know I’m going to have beans spilled all over me before I even have time to react. (They’re known to leave quite a stubborn stain.) And forget Google Reader. My blog roll will have to wait. Someone might give something away in the title of their post.

I am pretty much going to have to avoid any and all media until further notice. Which could potentially be a problem.

Have I mentioned that I work for a newspaper?

Crap.

It’s just that I have invested hours upon hours of my life (well, at least of the past two months) watching Kate and Sawyer and Jack and John, not to mention the strain that all of this time traveling and these interwoven plot lines have put on my brain. If I find out “the secret” or hear how it ends, what incentive will I have to finish the series? And if I don’t finish the series, I’ll have to admit that those hundreds of hours I spent viewing instantly on Netflix, hours that could’ve been spent reading or writing or wiping the toothpaste off the bathroom mirror (yes, mirror), were just wasted. And I need no more guilt in my life.

I can’t think we’re the only ones in this predicament, the only ones who are going to spend the next few weeks with our fingers in our ears singing, “La la la la. I can’t hear you! La la la la . . .” It’s too bad we can’t all band together, maybe hunker down somewhere remote with only our TV and our DVDs until we’re ready to face the truth. You know, like a jury does in the middle of a highly publicized trial.

Any other “Lost” fans out there wanna be sequestered with me?

Until then . . . “La la la la la!”

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I Blame It All on Lost

So Husband and I are watching Lost

And after spending so many hours the past month catching up trying to catch up — hours that really should’ve been spent cleaning toilets, cooking a decent meal for our children or, I don’t know, blogging . . . 

We’ve finally made it to Season 3.

What is this drug we’ve gotten hooked on?

Damn you, Lost. Damn you and your smoke monster, your psycho cult leader with the spinal tumor and your freakin’ polar bear.

And why so many episodes per season, why? I want to know what happens next, but am I willing to find out at the expense of my children and reputation as a domestic goddess? (I hope I didn’t cause you to choke on your coffee with that last one.)

Apparently I am.

It’s all I can do to prevent myself from googling  “Lost” and just reading the summary of seasons 3, 4, 5, and 6 (to present). And not to mention reading all the commentaries about the Biblical parallels. I find that FAS.CI.NA.TING.

But instead I will dry off with a dirty towel that I plunk from the hamper, throw in a frozen pizza (again) and convince myself that I’ll write that blog post tomorrow.

 After I watch just one more episode of Lost.