The Psychology of Watching The Golden Girls Every Night

I think there may actually be something psychologically fascinating about people who constantly rewatch the same television shows over and over again. Not in a “we need to study these people in a lab” kind of way, but in a “why do I know the exact episode of The Golden Girls from hearing Blanche say three words?” kind of way.

And before anyone asks: yes, I have seen every episode. Repeatedly. At this point, Hulu should honestly just give me partial ownership of the Miami house.

What’s interesting is that I never really get tired of it. I know what Sophia is going to say. I know Dorothy is about to stare into the camera like she’s reconsidering every life choice that led her to this kitchen. I know Rose’s story from St. Olaf is going to somehow involve livestock, a parade, and mild community trauma. None of this is new information to me. Yet every single night, there I am in my bedroom, turning on the same episodes like a 75-year-old retired woman trapped in the body of an exhausted college instructor.

Some people fall asleep to rain sounds. Some meditate. I apparently require four elderly women arguing over cheesecake at 1:00 a.m.

I’ve heard people connect “comfort shows” to anxiety, stress, nostalgia, trauma, neurodivergence, or emotional regulation, and honestly? I think there’s probably truth in all of it. The older I get, the more I think predictable things become comforting when life itself hasn’t always felt predictable. Fictional characters can start to feel strangely safe. Nobody leaves. Nobody changes much. Dorothy stays sarcastic. Blanche stays dramatic. Rose stays sweet. Sophia stays completely unhinged.

There’s comfort in knowing exactly what comes next.

And maybe that sounds silly to people who don’t have a show like that, but I think there’s something healing about returning to the same place over and over when it feels familiar. Especially for people who grew up without a strong sense of stability or consistency. Some people had comforting childhood traditions, giant family dinners, or a house full of dependable people. I had reruns and sarcasm.

Honestly, not the worst trade.

At this point, the women from The Golden Girls have probably spent more nights in my bedroom than my first husband. And unlike real life, I know exactly what’s going to happen there. The conflict gets resolved in 22 minutes. Nobody stays mad forever. Somebody learns a lesson. Sophia insults someone. Roll credits. Emotional stability restored until tomorrow.

Maybe that’s the psychology of comfort shows. Or maybe I just need psychiatric evaluation and a lifetime Hulu discount.

Mischievious Isn't a Word (And Yet Here We Are)

 I was watching a 20/20 interview when an investigative reporter confidently dropped the word “mischievious.”

Not mischievous — the real one. The bonus syllable version. The “buy one, get one free” pronunciation. And the worst part? Nobody flinched. Not the interviewer. Not the editors. Not the universe.

Which is how I know we’re officially living in the era of confidently wrong English being treated like a personality trait.  But it isn't a cute little personality quirk.

It’s not the language naturally changing — it’s the rest of us being told, “Stop being annoying. Just accept it.”  And it doesn't just stop with this one word.

“Accepted Vernacular” is just a fancy way to say “we gave up.”

We used to have a system:

Someone says something wrong. Someone corrects it. Everyone moves on

Now it’s:

Someone says something wrong. Enough people repeat it. It becomes “common.” And suddenly it’s rude to act like it’s wrong

At some point, the error stops being an error and starts being a choice.

And if you don’t accept the choice, you’re the problem. You’re the uptight one. You’re the villain in the story.

Not the phrase that makes no sense.

“I could care less” is the hill I will die on!

People confidently say “I could care less” when they mean they do not care at all.

Which is like saying:

“I am starving.”
“Oh wow, when was the last time you ate?”
“Two hours ago. I could eat less.”

If you could care less, then you still care.
You have room to care less.
There is emotional wiggle room left in the tank.

What you mean is couldn’t.
As in: “My caring has hit rock bottom. It cannot go lower. We are done here.”

But no — now it’s so common that we’re expected to just accept it as “a phrase people say.”

Not because it’s correct.
Not because it makes sense.
But because it’s so common.

We're not evolving, we're just lowering the bar—  and I think that’s what bothers me most.

It’s not that people misspeak sometimes. We all do. Everyone has a word they’ve been saying wrong since 2006 and only found out last week. That’s normal.

It’s that we’re now treating correction like it’s a hate crime.

Like the mere idea of saying, “Hey, just so you know…” is somehow worse than the phrase being wrong in the first place.

We’ve created a culture where: accuracy is “snobby,” clarity is “nitpicky,” and being correct is somehow less important than being confidently incorrect.

So now we just… move on.

We accept it.
We absorb it.
We watch the English language slowly become a group project where nobody proofreads, but everyone insists it’s fine.

And I guess it is fine.

It’s just also annoying.

A Hero’s Journey, But It’s Just Me Getting Out of Bed

There are days when getting out of bed feels like climbing Mount Everest.

Not literally — no frostbitten fingers, no oxygen tanks, no Sherpa watching me cry because my sock seam feels “wrong.” But emotionally? It’s the same mountain. And the worst part? I can see the summit. It’s right there. The summit is: Stand up. Walk downstairs. And yet my brain acts like I’m gearing up for a National Geographic documentary.

People say things like “Just put your feet on the floor!” with the same confidence of someone telling you the secret to losing weight is “Just eat less.” If it were that easy, Karen, I wouldn’t be lying here calculating whether I have the energy to blink.

I wish I could be one of those people who wakes up, stretches, springs out of bed, and decides it’s a great day to go for a jog or scrub baseboards or alphabetize the spice rack.

Meanwhile I’m over here negotiating with myself like:

“If you get up now, you can sit on the couch instead.”

“If you walk to the kitchen, you don’t even have to cook — just vibe in front of the fridge like a sad little goblin.”

“If you check the mailbox, there’s a 1% chance it’s not bad news.”

There’s this invisible weight that sits on my chest some mornings — the kind of heavy that isn’t dramatic enough to write about in a medical journal but is absolutely heavy enough to keep me from standing up. It’s not laziness. It’s not lack of motivation. It’s not “needing a better morning routine” (thanks, reels).

It’s mental illness.

It’s exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix.

It’s depression creeping in like a fog machine at a middle-school dance.

It’s anxiety whispering, “Don’t move, something might go wrong.”

It’s trauma saying, “You’re safer here.”

And yet — I still want to be the person who can just will themselves into action. I want to be the person who throws on shoes and checks the mailbox without giving themselves an internal TED Talk about perseverance. I want to be the person whose brain doesn’t turn a simple task into a death-defying expedition.

But here’s the thing I’m slowly learning:

Getting out of bed is climbing Mount Everest for some of us.

That doesn’t make us weak.

It just means we’re hiking a different mountain.

And on the days I finally swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, stand up, and take even five steps?

That’s my summit. That’s my flag at the top. That’s my “Hey, look, Ma, I made it!”

Some people climb Everest for bragging rights.

Some of us climb it just to get to the couch.

Both are victories.