”You can’t expect me to keep up that level of charm—I’d have a heart attack!”
—Woody Allen in Play It Again Sam, explaining to his wife, as she’s leaving him, why he doesn’t make the same effort to interest her that he did during their courtship


When I first met my husband K—, we spent a lot of time outdoors.  We rode mountain bikes, we skied, we canoed, we camped.  When I learned to ice skate, he tried to learn, too.  It was wonderful.

When’s the last time we did any of those things?  I can’t remember.  I can remember when I last did them, but not with him.  In fact, K— has so far distanced himself from his early athleticism that a few weeks ago he announced he’s adopted a new nickname and that henceforth he would like to be addressed as the Slouch on the Couch.

He set about living up to his new moniker earnestly.  The other evening I walked into the living room while he was watching TV.  I cleared my throat to get his attention.  “Uh, Slouch,” I said, “I’m just heading out for a walk.  Don’t suppose you’d like to join me?”  There was a long pause as though he was considering my offer carefully.  Just as I came to the conclusion that he hadn’t heard a word and I turned to leave, he finally answered, “I’ll pass.  But do me a favor and bring me the chips before you go?”

Ever the dutiful wife, I fetched the chips.  As I handed them to him, I happened to notice what he was watching.  No joke—I couldn’t make up something this ironic—it was Survivorman.

Apparently, what Woody Allen should have said is, ”You can’t expect me to keep up that level of exercise…!” because I’m afraid there’s quite a large sorority of us outdoor types abandoned by our one-time male counterparts.  For a couple of years someone I know dated a guy she was initially attracted to because he said his favorite activities were all sports related.  At first, it almost seemed true.  He made just enough token attempts at hiking for her to take him at his word.  But as time went on, they spent less and less time out of doors and more and more time on his couch—and not in the good way you can spend time on a couch.  “Eventually,” she said, “I realized that watching ESPN is also a sports-related activity.”  She dropped him and moved on.

Recently I saw a funny movie called The Tao of Steve that hit this nail on the head perfectly.  It’s all about a guy who does exactly what Mr. Sports Related did: tell a woman what she wants to hear in order to get close to her.  Part of the soundtrack was a Lemonheads song called The Outdoor Type that relates our collective woeful story.  Here are the lyrics:


Always had a roof above me
Always paid the rent
But I've never set foot inside a tent
Can't build a fire to save my life
I lied about being the outdoor type

I've never slept out underneath the stars
The closest that I came to that was one time my car
Broke down for an hour in the suburbs at night
I lied about being the outdoor type

Too scared to let you know—you knew what you were looking for
I lied until I fit the bill, God bless the great indoors
I lied about being the outdoor type
I've never owned a sleeping bag, never rode a mountain bike

I can't go away with you on a rockclimbing weekend
What if something’s on TV and it’s never shown again
It’s just as well I'm not invited, I'm afraid of heights
I lied about being the outdoor type
Never learned to swim can't grow a beard or even fight
I lied about being the outdoor type


You’ll notice that the common theme in both the real-life experiences and the song is television.  It seems to me that the worst enemy of outdoor activity is television broadcasting of outdoor activity.  If I’d learned this lesson earlier, I could have predicted the future of my outdoor life with my husband in the first twelve hours of our relationship.  We met one night kind of by accident and exchanged phone numbers.  I called him the very next day and asked him to go cross-country skiing with me.  He turned me down.  Why?  He was hanging out with a friend, watching a playoff game on TV.

As I watched The Tao of Steve and pondered my fate I got to wondering exactly what “tao” is.  One translation is “the way of nature,” i.e., a harmonization of one’s personal will with that of the wider universe.  Supposedly fighting tao is futile and self-destructive.  That sure seems to be the operating principle here.  When K— and I met, I didn’t own a boob tube.  As long as he was with me, he couldn’t watch TV.  That was definitely my will and nature in harmony.

I’d like to throw out the TV we have now (wouldn’t it be fitting if the last thing I watched on it was The Tao of Steve?), but he’d just buy a new one—in fact, a bigger, louder one. Fighting the TV would be very self-destructive.

So how to align my will with the universal current?  I think I have the answer, and it’s called parental controls.  Since we don’t have kids, it will take K— a while to figure out what I’ve done.  In the meantime, maybe he’ll get some bright ideas when he finds that the only station he can tune in is the Outdoor Life Network.