By Golly, I'm a Fan of Bob Ross
I'm addicted to Bob Ross.
It all started out small. I'd watch an episode or two of "The Joy of Painting" before bedtime to relax, the soothing timbre of Ross' voice lulling me to sleep.
Soon, though, I started watching when I was cooking dinner, then when I was getting dressed. When I'm stressed out, I'll even put on an episode of "The Joy of Painting" and do some deep breathing meditation. (I suspect the show helps more than the meditation does, honestly.)
Eventually, I figured out a way to change the TV settings so that the first thing that comes up when you turn it on is the Bob Ross channel -- which I recently learned is a thing, to my delight and my family's annoyance.
"Why did you do that?" my son asked after he realized that he'd have to navigate past Bob every time he wanted to watch anything on TV.
"Because I got tired of trying to find the channel every time," I said.
My kids got so sick of "The Joy of Painting" that when my husband told them that I'd be going out of town for a few days, my younger son consoled his brother by saying that "at least we won't have to watch Bob Ross while she's gone."
But that's OK. They don't need to love Bob like I do.
Bob's not really for them, anyway. Their lives are already castles of innocence, protected by moats built by their parents, their family and their community. Mine, on the other hand, suffers repeated bombardments from Facebook, the gym TVs showing Fox News and relatives who just can't help saying, "Guess what Donald Trump just did!"
I'd rather not.
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