I suffer from Netflix embarrassment

In October, I fell asleep on the couch, in November I fell asleep on the couch (my boyfriend did too, what a cozy couple we are) and then I just gave up on the Spanish chatter. La Casa de Papel was not made for us. Until last week.

I tried it one more time, because you know all that nonsense about three times for sure and if I believe in one right then it's maritime law. My boyfriend was parked in front of the TV, because he wasn't quite ready for it voluntarily, and vamos, off we went. No idea what I was doing those first two times, probably sleeping, but what a series, what heroes, what a scoundrel, that Alicia. And now I have Netflix shame. It's not that you are ashamed of a series or that you haven't seen it yet, but for the short time in which you binge the series. To sketch the timeline: we started Thursday night with the first of the first of La Casa de Papel and yesterday we saw the last of the last. We ate on the couch, we spent Saturday on the couch, every evening we spent on the couch. It's enough to make you feel ashamed.

Now I could still cover it up a bit, because most people think it's only about the last season. But honestly, I must say that we binge-watched three seasons in six days, during which we both had to work for four days and sat on the terrace on Sunday, do the math. You get Netflix shame from it, because that apparently exists.

Netflix shame is a bit like flight shame. It's your shame 2.0. We didn't care about it before, suddenly you start whispering because oops and ouch. Accidentally putting a broken glass in your residual waste bag? Climate shame. A desire for more than two children? You get more-than-two-children shame from it, I read in Het Parool. And Netflix shame, because my goodness, what else you could have done with that time. It's a bit of the new shame. But your shame is indeed from every time and shame is also very useful.

You feel ashamed because you deviate from the social norm. But, as philosopher Coen Simons says to the relevant newspaper, you also make it immediately discussable by giving the beast a name. Of course, it's a bit awkward, but through shame, you apparently also make contact and all the beauty arises outside your comfort zone. They say. Okay, I watched La Casa de Papel non-stop in every free minute I had.

Hmmm, small problem: I believe I can live with it. And Netflix, when is that next season coming?

P.S.: This is why you actually shouldn't binge season 3.