The narrator’s VCR—and the media she consumes throughout her hibernation in general—symbolizes her self-delusion. Whenever the narrator cannot physically force herself to sleep, she watches TV shows or movies in a semi-conscious, drug-induced haze to pass the time, frequently relying on the actors’ voices to lull her to sleep. The narrator’s TV functions as a stand-in for human interaction: the mitigated version of “reality” she sees on the screen enables her to carry out her self-imposed isolation without fully losing touch with the outside world, all while she claims to herself that she hates people or is too enlightened or disillusioned with society to be affected by the needs and insecurities that plague most other people. The narrator’s TV allows her to minimize her own insecurities and her reliance on distraction. If she can stay inside for a whole year, she seems to tell herself, it is proof that she (unlike the deluded rest of the world) has recognized banal socialization, career clout, and mindless consumerism for the distractions from reality that they are. In reality, however, the narrator would not be able to carry out her hibernation without the distraction and company her TV offers her. Indeed, once her VCR breaks, she’s unable to watch movies, and it becomes more difficult for her to avoid the reality of her situation and her feelings. As a result, she begins to doubt the efficacy of her hibernation project, revealing to readers (though it’s not entirely clear to the narrator herself) the flimsiness of the narrator’s plan to sleep her way to personal enlightenment and rebirth.
TV/VCR/DVD Quotes in My Year of Rest and Relaxation
Things were happening in New York City—they always are—but none of it affected me. This was the beauty of sleep—reality detached itself and appeared in my mind as casually as a movie or a dream. It was easy to ignore things that didn’t concern me. Subway workers went on strike. A hurricane came and went. It didn’t matter. Extraterrestrials could have invaded, locusts could have swarmed, and I would have noted it, but I wouldn’t have worried.
“I’m not a junkie or something,” I said defensively. “I’m taking some time off. This is my year of rest and relaxation.”
“Lucky you,” Reva said. “I wouldn’t mind taking time off from work to loaf around, watch movies, and snooze all day, but I’m not complaining. I just don’t have that luxury.”
The ghoulish voice of the TV show’s male narrator and Reva’s sniffles and sighs should have lulled me to sleep. But I could not sleep. I closed my eyes.
I had to admit that it was a comfort to have Reva there. She was just as good as a VCR, I thought. The cadence of her speech was as familiar and predictable as the audio from any movie I’d watched a hundred times.
I wanted the old half life back, when my VCR still worked and Reva would come over with her petty gripes and I could lose myself in her shallow universe for a few hours and then disappear into slumber. I wondered if those days were over now that Reva had been promoted and Ken was out of the picture. Would she suddenly grow into maturity and discard me as a relic from a failed past, the way I’d hoped to do to her when my year of sleep was over? Was Reva actually waking up? Did she now realize I was a terrible friend? Could she really dispose of me so easily? No. No. She was a drone. She was too far gone.
There she is, a human being, diving into the unknown, and she is wide awake.