All My Life's A Circle

I’m almost through with another well-written TV series, this one British, called, “William and Mary.”

Have I said how much I love Netflix?

The show’s about a single dad who is an undertaker and a single mom who is a midwife and how they get together (via a dating service) and all the baggage that goes along with their families.

(I think it should have been the other way around, with the dad the midwife and the mom the undertaker.)

For instance, Mary’s mother spends a couple of episodes trying to get Mary back with Mary’s long-ago ex-boyfriend and she wants nothing to do with him and is very clear about it. You find out soon enough that the mom and the ex have spent so much time together, they’ve actually fallen in love. And the Brits make it all quite all right. They are much less stuffy about those things than us Yanks.

It’s so well done and has me laughing and crying through each episode. It is filmed making the most of the beginnings and endings of life and is not depressing at all, despite the tragedies that occur because they show the best moments right along with the worst. It feels quite real.

Granted, I am still in a weakened condition, but not too weak to know great story lines.

I thought I would have avoided romantic movies and shows right now, and life and death events, seeing as how my marriage so recently became undone, but I am drawn to them by some invisible force. Possibly one of self-flagellation.

I do find it therapeutic, though; watching them gives me a reason to let go with my emotions in a safe place and not keep stuffing my busted heart inside my shirt, with it surreptitiously leaking when I least expect it. It’s so boring when I just cry all the time in front of people—not fun at all.

Shows and movies give me hope.

Celluloid hope, but hope nonetheless. And fake hope becomes real if you hold onto it long enough.