Twenty Good Minutes

People were complaining that a sitcom they watched was no longer giving them what they expected. I remember wondering what, exactly, a twenty-minute television comedy was supposed to provide.

I came home tired. I watched an episode. For twenty minutes, the day became less important, and two or three jokes made me laugh. This seemed like a reasonable contract.

The show did not find a girlfriend for lonely viewers. It did not make anyone smarter, richer, healthier, or more interesting. It certainly did not launch anyone into space. On the other hand, it had never advertised these services.

There is a strange pressure to make entertainment justify itself through greatness. A series must be important, original, unforgettable, perfectly concluded, and somehow worthy of every hour spent watching it. Sometimes that is a useful way to judge art. Sometimes a person has simply come home from work.

On those evenings, modest usefulness can be enough.

A cup of tea does not need to change your life. A short walk does not need to become a fitness program. A comedy can occupy twenty minutes, make the room lighter, and leave without explaining the human condition.

I still like that standard.

Not everything pleasant needs to become significant.

Some things earn their place by making twenty ordinary minutes better.