It seems nearly impossible but I doubt I've watched a complete episode of "Seinfeld" for a number of years now.
Oh sure, I've occasionally paused mid-episode while channel flipping to enjoy a famously recognizable scene or two.
The Puffy Shirt? The Marine Biologist? The Contest? Who can flip past any of those when you see one of them in progress?
So despite less "Seinfeld" in my TV diet, I seem to be finding more "Seinfeld" moments coming to life in my world.
Take the other night (or as Henny Youngman used to say, "Please!").
Making an earlier-than-usual exit toward recumbent bliss, the lights were out, the TV off and I was visiting dreamland when I felt as though a horse kicked me in my right calf.
Jumping from the bed like the Ice Bucket Challenge had assaulted my senses again, I hobbled around the bedroom, swearing like a sailor on shore leave, leaning on the dresser, grabbing hold of the doorway for support. Darn leg cramps.
No sooner had the pain subsided in my right leg than I could feel the telltale tingle starting up my left leg. Whoa, I haven't had this much fun since I was 12 and jumped off a pier into about a foot of water, spraining both ankles simultaneously.
Letting myself fall back onto the mattress, I thought I might be able to keep my legs moving enough to work out the cramps. While that seemed to work for my calves, the cramps just switched locations, attacking the front of my ankles.
Talk about bringing tears to your eyes in the middle of the night ...
Sadly I have already looked at enough leg cramp information online to learn that doctors don't really know what brings them on.
Dehydration gets blamed a lot. Lack of potassium. The full moon. The sound of Mary Hart's voice (that's a "Seinfeld" reference for you enthusiasts).
So in the throes of the debilitating cramps, I only knew to hobble to the kitchen, chug a cold bottle of water and wolf down a banana.
But a funny thing happened on the way to relief. The bananas that were on the kitchen counter had passed their expiration date (I hate mushy bananas as much as soggy cereal). They had met their demise the day before, getting chucked in the trash, and unfortunately I had yet to replenish my cramp-prevention supply.
Suddenly my brain went all George Costanza -- after all, it was the middle of the night -- and I realized the trash bag containing those over-ripe bananas was in my green Jack's Trash bin, just a few steps away in the garage.
George, you'll remember, couldn't resist taking a big gooey bite after spotting an éclair atop the kitchen trash at his girlfriend's home. Just as he sank his teeth into it, the girl's mother burst into the kitchen to essentially find Costanza eating out of the trash.
"Adjacent to refuse is refuse," as Jerry assures him.
Nasty, yes. But if those mushy bananas could be retrieved without incident, I could certainly calm my cramps.
Who's gonna know? My dog? Hey, I've seen Chopper eat off the floor and eye the toilet bowl with thirsty desire.
So I made my way to the garage, popping the top off the trash bin. Yep, there was that Hefty bag, tossed atop a bunch of weeds I'd pulled and various plastic bags harboring souvenirs of Chopper's ventures outdoors.
I plucked the bag from that mixture of musty refuse and tore into it. Greeted by coffee grounds, stained junk mail and disgusting remnants of meal preparation past, I couldn't go any further.
"I'm out!" as Kramer says, slapping down his money in "The Contest."
Couldn't eat a banana from that mess, peel or no peel. Couldn't pull a Costanza. Couldn't go there.
Stumbled back to the living room instead. Grabbed another bottle of water, slumped into my chair and turned on the TV.
Flipped the channels. And there was "Seinfeld."
The episode? "The Gymnast." George and Jerry talking trash.
Karma ... Hmm, must be the cure for cramps.