It’s pretty much a daily ordeal. My sweetie pie and I sit down to watch TV and, despite having literally thousands of options, we can’t find anything of interest.

Those in charge of entertainment programing seem to have left those of us in more mature age groups behind. The plethora of never-ending superhero sagas, monster-driven teen love stories, simplistic rom-coms, and one-note horror films has become so overwhelming that we are often on the verge of giving up.

So, imagine my surprise when, all in one week, three wonderful programs popped up. I will now put on my movie-reviewer cap, a chapeau I wore briefly as a newspaper reporter. I can still recall the day my editor stood by his desk and yelled, “Anybody want to review a movie?” I leaped from my seat, arm in the air like a second-grader in need of a bathroom break. Since no one else in the newsroom even looked up from their screens, the job fell to me, one I would thoroughly enjoy until I left to become a teacher.

So, I will now utilize those rusty reviewing skills.

The first show was a series called Archie, a BritBox program about the life of movie star Cary Grant, played here by a pitch-perfect Jason Isaacs. When one looks at massively famous people who seem to have it all, we don’t often see beneath the self-constructed shell. In Grant’s case, the lost, abused, little boy who grew up in poverty in England. His brother dies and his grief-stricken, domineering mother is placed in a mental institution by his father, a philanderer who is more interested in other women than his grieving wife. Grant, whose real name was Archie Leach, is practically sold by his father to a Vaudeville show, one that takes him to America. The story is based in part on the book Dear Cary, a memoir by his fourth wife, actor Dyan Cannon, who was 33 years his junior when they married. It was a fascinating, well-acted look at a charming, stunningly suave, anguished man, one who was uncomfortable living as the character he created for us to see and desperately seeking his place in life.

Then there was the film Leave the World Behind, a dystopian-thriller, Netflix original based on the best-selling novel by Rumaan Alam. The story details two families struggling through an odd string of occurrences, seemingly initiated by a cyber-attack. All communication systems are lost. No cellphones, TV, or GPS. They are in what appears to be a remote, extremely wealthy enclave outside of New York City, since one can periodically see the skyline in the distance. The local mansions are inexplicably empty. Animals are acting strangely. (Note that you’ll look at deer in a whole new light.) The actors are heavy hitters—Ethan Hawke, Mahershala Ali, Kevin Bacon, and Julia Roberts, who, rather out of character, plays a disgruntled wife and mother who freely says she hates people. I’ll admit here that I enjoy women on screen who eschew the need to be likable and beautiful in every scene. Robert’s character is distrusting, indignant, and racist even prior to what might be a nationwide—or perhaps worldwide—blackout. My favorite line was uttered by Hawke’s dimwitted character, when in frustration he yells, “I can’t barely do anything without my cellphone and my GPS. I am a useless man,” sentiment he proves while driving around completely lost, unable to manage without technology telling him what to do and which way to go. As giant oil tankers run aground and planes fall from the sky, the families try to make sense of a world gone mad.

Finally, one of the most stunning pictures I’ve seen in years: Maestro, another Netflix original. The biopic details the life of the brilliant American composer and director Leonard Bernstein, focusing mainly on his relationship with his wife Felicia. Bernstein, played by Bradley Cooper, is mercurial, flamboyant, and sometimes depressed. He loves his wife without reservation, but still has sex with men, partners who become part of their household. Cooper, I think, will win awards for his portrayal, and might take home a statue or two for writing and directing, as well. The scenes with Felicia, played by Carey Mulligan, are dynamic and exhausting, the dialogue so quick-paced and overlapping, that viewers get caught up in the urgency. Mulligan displays Felicia’s anguish with small glances and gestures that are heartbreaking. No doubt there might be some hardware in her future, as well. Then, of course, there is the music. Bernstein’s magnificent works are played throughout the film by the London Symphony Orchestra, sometimes as scene-setting background music, sometimes with Cooper brilliantly conducting from the podium.

There you have it. Three beautiful and thought-provoking pieces of cinema, so grab some popcorn and hit the couch.

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The idea of bucking up under criticism and proving others wrong is a solid one, but what happens when you can’t turn it off?

Since I was an overweight, dyslexic, sometimes bullied child, I have yearned to prove people wrong. “You’re stupid!” “You’re ugly!” “You’re fat!”

When I was 18, my brother made me a twenty-dollar bet that I’d flunk out of school before the end of my freshman year, explaining that I was too stupid to get through college. I took that wager with one thing in mind. I will prove you wrong!

And I did. Even today—and don’t judge me here—I enjoy the fact that there are more degrees on my wall than his. I proved him wrong, which I also did to a lot of other people who told me I wasn’t worthy. “You can’t be a sportscaster!” “You can’t be a referee!” “You can’t be a writer!

Obviously, I believe the idea of pushing past the naysayers was admirable. But I wonder if we ever get to stop proving ourselves. Today, I’m retired from fulltime work and have accomplished most of what I set out to do, and yet I yearn to do more. This attitude, however, is apparently not a positive trait. Insecurity may be at work, especially when one places too much importance on garnering approval.

In the article “Feeling The Need to Prove Yourself to Others,” Michael Schreiner points out that “…if you’re sure of your own talents, abilities, and accomplishments others’ opinions won’t matter to you much, but if you’re secretly unsure of your talents, abilities, and accomplishments these opinions will matter to you very much indeed.”

After thinking about that, I realized that I fall somewhere in the middle. I know I’ve done things well in my life, but—though I hate to admit it—I still care what others think, something Schreiner explains is a waste of time.

“Your time and energy would be much better spent focusing on your own development than on proving yourself to others. Once you get to a certain point of development you’ll no longer care about that approval anyway so you might as well stop caring about it now and decide instead to go about proving yourself to yourself.”

How is that accomplished? I found a few hints. First, stop angling for perfection. It doesn’t really exist, so let it go. Then there’s the idea that praise can be addictive. When people tell us we’re great, we tend to want to hear it over and over and, like a hamster on a wheel, we keep running to get that praise again. So, remember your own strengths, give yourself an attaboy, and move on. Also, stop comparing yourself to others, which in this social media world is almost impossible but which is a much healthier attitude. And finally, be grateful for  the life you have and for what you’ve already accomplished.

Having said all this, I’m pretty sure switching off that little voice in my head that urges me to do more won’t be easy, but I’m willing to give it a try.

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“You snore!” My sweetie-pie squinted at me.

He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. I periodically snored so loudly I would wake myself up. Ironically, he was the one who used to saw wood, as old folks once said. But then he lost 65 pounds and now he doesn’t make a peep when he’s off in slumberland.

He eyed me. “You should go see a doctor. What if you have sleep apnea?”

I flashed on those TV commercials where frustrated sleepers rip off a facemask attached to a tube attached to a box that pumps oxygen into their lungs, ostensibly to keep their snoring to a minimum. The contraption seemed worse than the problem, so my first thought was, “Heck no!” But eventually he talked me into a visit to the local sleep clinic.

A nice young doctor—Why do they all suddenly look 15?—looked down my throat and took a few notes. “We’ll do a sleep study,” he said.

I glanced at the corner of the examination room where two plastic heads wore versions of continuous positive airway pressure machines, more commonly referred to as CPAPs.

“They’re not as bad as those TV commercials make them out to be,” the doctor explained when he saw me staring. “I wear one every night.”

Later, I pulled a device from a small black box. I’d been instructed to place two sticky pads on the machine, affix it to my forehead, arrange the strap around my head, then situate a tube beneath my nose.

 “Please lie down and sleep.” A lilting female voice with a British accent startled me, but I regained my composure and did as she recommended. I slipped between the sheets, pulled up the covers, and closed my eyes. Though the box sticking to my forehead felt a little strange, I nodded off.

“Your device has been disconnected!”

I jolted up.

“Please reconnect your device!”

It took me a moment, but I soon realized it was the British lady addressing me. One of the sticky pads had come loose, so I pressed it back onto my forehead.

“Please lie down and sleep,” she instructed in a more soothing tone.

I wondered if I should apologize for upsetting her. Then I considered whether she was a real person, watching from some far-off observation facility. Was there a camera in the little box? Or a microphone? I was tempted to say hello, but she again ordered me to get back to sleeping.

The British lady—and perhaps her medical minions—tracked my sleep for three nights, after which I returned the box to the clinic.  

“The doctors will examine the results and inform you of the next steps,” the receptionist explained.

While waiting for the process to play out, I learned that sleep apnea affects roughly 30 million U.S. adults, though only about six million have been diagnosed. The problem, of course, is that the affliction can lead to medical issues like heart attacks and strokes, as well as memory problems, insulin resistance, and an overall sense of exhaustion. I’ve also learned it can cause grumpy partners.

It will be a month or so before I hear if I have to spend a few nights at the sleep clinic attached to wires and electrodes to check my heartrate, breathing, oxygen levels, and some other things. I passed a few of those pretty little bedrooms the last time I visited. I wonder if the British lady will be there and if the minions might leave me a mint on the pillow.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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