I’ve been cheating. 

Netflix cheating.  

It’s not my fault. Factors beyond my control led to my deceit. 

Also, my husband Netflix cheated on me first.  

So there’s that. 

Are the strict categories I have for my shows contributory to my cheating? 

No. They’re not. Just stop. 

I can’t watch a show I binge during workouts and instead watch it when I’m curled up alone on the sofa with tea and brownies. 

Be reasonable. Those are totally different situations demanding shows of vastly different tenor.  

The Boys? Let’s grab some weights and find out who Homelander killed this week. 

The Bridge? Well, I’m watching that in its original Swedish.  

No dubbing.  

Dubbing is just anarchy. 

And kicking my way through dance aerobics while reading subtitles — that will never happen. 

I have shows I binge with my children — separately, of course, because one likes tomatoes and the other doesn’t so I really have no hope of them liking the same shows. 

Then, of course, there are shows I watch with my husband. Jack Ryan, for example. Or Gangs of London.  

The importance of the shows my husband and I binge together can’t be overstated.  

The intersection of televised entertainment appealing to both me — sci-fi, horror, medieval-England loving me — and my husband — outdoorsy, cerebral, denigrates the Marvel Cinematic Universe as set “too much in outer space” — is very narrow. 

Worse, there are maybe two evenings in any given week my husband and I are together. This time is sacrosanct. A little wine, a little Breeders. 

This arrangement was lovely when we had little kids. 

But now we have teenagers. Teenagers who enjoy shows my husband and I once watched à deux. 

Those teenagers work after school jobs, cutting in half the evenings available for, say, Ted Lasso. Yet, bizarrely, it also cuts in half the viewing opportunities for shows no responsible parent watches with their kids. 

Looking at you, Gangs of London. I love you, but I’m looking at you. 

So my husband and I have fallen behind. Hopelessly — irrevocably, even — behind.  

And this is where the cheating comes in. 

I have a long list of shows for workout bingeing.  

Of course I do.  

I also have a limit to how many streaming services I’ll pay for. 

These shows and their streamers — they don’t cooperate with me. 

For example.  

I had Paramount so I could watch Star Trek: Discovery.  

I canceled Paramount when I finished Discovery. 

Then I started Evil on Netflix. 

And do you know what I, um, Discovery-ed?  

Evil only goes to season two on Netflix. 

Do you know where its last two seasons stream? 

Yeah. Paramount. 

But I refuse to pay for Paramount while I’m paying to stream The Bridge in its original Swedish because dubbing is anarchy. 

Anarchy! 

As soon as I finish The Bridge, I can cancel its streamer and subscribe to Paramount. There, Evil awaits. 

The show, Evil. Not evil like the demon in my storeroom. 

As you see from this example, while I have plenty of shows on my list — shows specifically for bingeing during workouts — I can’t watch any of them until I’m willing to pay for their streamers. 

So I ran out of shows to watch. 

I needed something. Really needed something. Something to drive me from the warmth of my bed to the cold, cold weights. 

So I watched Jack Ryan. 

Let’s be real. We’re two seasons behind. Who am I hurting, really? My husband will never know. I can watch it again. Pretend I’m not familiar with every plot twist. It’s one show. 

One. 

But then I finished it. 

So I started Breeders. 

I watched recordings of Breeders from our DVR, where it has lived for so long, the Golden Bachelor hadn’t even met his future ex-wife.  

Now, had I done any legwork, I would have found The Terror — long on my list of workout shows — is now on Netflix. I never would have cheated with Breeders had I known that. 

Fortunately, I found out about The Terror before my husband got home from Alaska. If he’s home during my workout, I watch The Terror so I don’t get caught with Breeders. 

This is the depth of my deception. 

The Guardian says Netflix cheaters are “despicable,” with “impulse control clearly blasted to smithereens.” 

And I’d tend to disagree, to stand tall for Netflix cheaters everywhere. 

But the puritanical Guardian goes on to say Netflix cheaters “probably have a secret chocolate stash in a cupboard somewhere.” 

And I do. I really, really do. 

But that’s not my fault, either. 

And to my husband, who reads every word I write, I — I finished Breeders. 

You’re not going to like the last season.  

So really — I did you a favor when I cheated. 

You’re welcome.