By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
There are all kinds of Lenten sacrifices. As a kid I used to swear off reading Baby-Sitters Club books or vow not to fight with my sister, and meanwhile my Catholic-school classmates and I would joke about giving up homework or broccoli or (gasp!) going to Mass. Unfortunately, this diversionary tactic"I'm giving up paying the rent, ha ha!"does not work for adults, and when I graduated to more grown-up fasts I encountered other stumbling blocks. Sacrificing desserts put a damper on my social life (nobody wants to be around the girl who turns down cheesecake), and it also felt like cheatinga New Year's resolution to lose weight disguised as religious discipline. The year I gave up coffee, I discovered that six weeks of cranky caffeine-withdrawal did nothing to edify the spirit. So this year I was determined to come up with a Lenten sacrifice that reflected the circumstances of my adult life without adversely affecting my relationships or concealing ulterior motives. I needed an entirely expendable luxury, something I would miss but not physically crave; something I could return to on Easter Sunday without feeling guilty.
After much soul-searching, I decided to give up Law & Order (watching the television series, that is, not adhering to the social code). I had never been a fan of the show in the traditional sense, but when I moved to New York and began my part-time career as a babysitter (credit all those sinful BSC books!), cable reruns of Law & Order became my anti-drug. Each night the child in my care would take to his crib, and I'd turn on the TV just in time to hear, "In the criminal justice system . . . " (Chung-chung!) Three hours later I'd turn the TV off, but only because the child's parents had come home and expected me to leave. Giving up the show for 40 days would be a true challenge and a pure sacrifice, and since I indulged only when I was alone, it would inconvenience no one but myself. And of course, once I thought of it, committing to some lesser sacrifice would have felt like cheating. By keeping track of my struggles, I hoped to learn something useful about myself.
Week One:I am pleased to discover that, without Law & Order to eat my evenings, I am more productive. I call my parents, instead of ignoring my phone so I won't miss any plot twists. I read more: I finish The New Yorker the day it arrives, and I don't even skip the Financial Page. So far, so good.
Week Two:Withdrawal is acute. I long to punctuate my evening hours with periodic chung-chungs and smooth sax riffs. Anticipating spiritual weakness, I had decided that the terms of my fast included all shows with Law & Order in the title, even Criminal Intent, which I don't like anyway. But that doesn't mean I can't watch other urban crime dramas. I try to make myself a fan of CSI or The Shield, but who can be bothered to learn the characters' backstories? (Law & Order eschews such distractions). In my lowest moment I find myself lingering over Court TV. I have a hard time believing that God is glorified by this sacrifice.
Week Three:In a cruel twist of fate, my favorite of the Law & Order franchises, Special Victims Unit, is filming an episode in the neighborhood where I babysit. The terms of my Lenten fast did not mention live-action performances, and I dream of being cast as "Passerby With Stroller." On the appointed day I take my young charge out for a walk, promising him the coveted role of "Baby in Stroller" if he behaves. We loiter near the equipment trucks and trailers, but it is noon and the street is deserted. I crane my neck for a glimpse of Chris Meloni or Mariska Hargitay, or even Ice-T, but lunch (or God's wrathful intervention) keeps them out of sight. Baby in Stroller starts to cry, and I move on, disappointed.
Week Four:Law & Order continues to invade my personal life. A well-meaning friend prints out a copy of an old Slate article discussing women like myself, who watch reruns of the show for hours on end, alone, and never speak of it to each other. The author, Michael Kinsley, calls it "The Secret Vice of Power Women." That same week, some co-workers at my part-time job chat about which Law & Order A.D.A. they like best (Stephanie March, of SVU, wins hands-down; the current blonde on L&O: Original Flavor is universally derided). That night Ice-T appears in my dreams, encouraging me to remain strong and avoid the near occasion of sin.
Week Five:As my 40-day fast winds down, I am surprised to discover that I have stopped imagining my life as if it were an episode of Law & Order. I no longer scan the bushes for corpses when I'm pushing a stroller through Riverside Park. I greet the doorman in my building just to be friendly, not so he'll be able to vouch for my comings and goings if I am later reported missing. I've stopped imagining what my parents will say when the police notify them of my disappearance or demise. (This, I've decided, will be a very dull scene, because my life currently lacks the kind of twist that would lead the investigation in a new direction. "Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, we're sorry to have to tell you this, but . . . we have reason to believe your daughter was acting as an agent for a group of Palestinian terrorists." Or, if the detectives on the scene were Stabler and Benson: "Did you ever suspect your daughter might be receiving drugs in exchange for sex?" None of these scenarios would fool my parents, even in a bewildered state of grief.)