To the Depth and Breadth and Height Her Remote Will Reach : Sometimes It’s good for the soul to admit what you really love.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love the way you can make me laugh when I’m in the worst of moods. I revel in how you can surprise me night after night. I fall head over heels when I think of how you leave me wanting more. You are my life, my love, my television.

I have denied it for many years, ashamed to reveal my weakness in the face of everyone who immediately scoffs at the thought of watching any TV that isn’t PBS; who can’t believe that someone would rather watch the Fox Network than read “The Iliad.” But I am stepping forward to say that I am in love with television.

It started long ago as a young tot watching “Mr. Rogers.” Every night, I would set up my TV tray and eat dinner, my eyes glazing over with anticipation of what would happen that evening in make-believe land. It was lovely, but soon that wasn’t enough. I needed more. I needed soap operas.

I was an early bloomer. By the time I was in the third grade, I was watching “Guiding Light,” “Ryan’s Hope,” “The Edge of Night” and “All My Children.” My sister and I faithfully watched the saga of Jenny and Greg until Jenny died in that awful jet ski accident. I cried for a week. After that, I had to take a break from the daytime soaps. I was just getting too involved. I moved on to nighttime soaps: “Dallas,” “Falcon Crest,” “Knots Landing.” My mom would let me stay up late every Friday to share her delight in the antics of the Ewing family and then pity the Giabertis on the Falcon Crest vineyard.

Those long-ago days fostered a love that I have never been able to shake. Ever since seeing Mr. Rogers change shoes, I have watched TV at least 30 hours a week. I walk in the door, I turn on the television. No matter what night of the week or what time of the day, I find something to watch. Sometimes it is a show like “20/20” or “60 Minutes.” More often, it will be repeats of “Home Improvement” or “Saved By the Bell.” I know every thing that Zach and Kelly have been through and feel as if I know the Taylors personally. I watch while I’m cooking, while I’m studying, while I’m on the phone. My TV is always on. I have seen almost every show on the air at least once. Sometimes I turn on an episode of “Baywatch,” and realize after half an hour that I’ve already seen it.

It’s times like those when I think I’ve gone too far and that maybe I should quit cold turkey--just unplug the box on top of my VCR and never plug it in again, follow the advice of all the television haters who say that I’m rotting my brain. But whenever I try it, I fail miserably. I wake up in the morning on that first day of my TV deprivation, start getting ready to go to class and can’t stand the silence. I rush to turn on the set so I can see the comforting smiles of Joan Lunden and Charlie Gibson and find out what three-part series will be running that week.

And if I had begun to buy into the anti-TV argument, I realized how wrong it was when NBC introduced “Must See TV,” which I have fallen for in the worst of ways. It has become a weekly ritual for me and my friends to gather around the tube to watch our favorites. We get Italian food and a bottle of wine and love every minute of it except for “The Single Guy” and “Suddenly Susan.” But we suffer through those two to enjoy “Friends,” “Seinfeld” and “ER.” And the best part: I not only get to see “Seinfeld” on Thursday night, but through the miracle of syndication, I can watch it every weekday. Some days, “Seinfeld” is my day’s saving grace. When I’m at work, trying to hold on through one more trip to the file cabinet, I’ll just start laughing, remembering Kramer the night before falling through the door and saying “Giddy-up.” My co-workers may think I’m crazy, but I know the truth. I’m happily obsessed with TV.