I’ve been able to travel the world and see all The Seven Wonders from an incredible aerial view. I’ve been to all the best concerts and have never had to worry about someone tall in front of me blocking my line of sight. But I’d be willing to give that all up for a tenth season of Seinfeld. Even after 180 episodes, there are more nuances to explore, more characters to be fleshed out, more relationships to see play out.
I need some closure. The thrill of seeing Julia Louis Dreyfus doing the Elaine dance one final time would mean more to me than being able to reach any shelf I need to. I would gladly become average size if that meant NBC — or maybe even Netflix — would pick up one final season.
When I walk down the street, people look at me like a god. And, honestly, sometimes I feel like one. Like when I’m automatically given the seats with extra legroom on planes. Or when I’m able to ride the most dangerous roller coasters in the world because I meet the height requirement. But that doesn’t come close to the joy I’d feel to hear that bass riff when Kramer walks into the apartment again.
Everyone has a price. Mine is that elusive tenth season. But none of this modern day nonsense. I want the new season to still be set in the 90’s. I guess I should make it clear that the trade is contingent on that.