I HAVE A CONFESSION to make. It isn’t an easy one. I will certainly be ridiculed by peers and colleagues and bring endless shame to my family for the secret I’ve been keeping. But it’s time to come clean.

I own a television.

Wait. That is only a partial truth, and if I am to make a proper confession, it must be a complete one, frightening as my veracity may be.

I own two televisions.

Apparently, this makes me a very bad person. I know this because lately it seems every interesting, educated, attractive, breathing person I’ve met has made a point of telling me, at some point within the first nine seconds of our meeting, that he or she does not own a television.

Now, mind you, these home-electronics revelations do not come about as a result of anything I’ve asked. I have never, upon meeting someone, inquired, "Plasma or flat-screen?" Nor have I wondered aloud whether his or her VCR is separate from the monitor, or one of those sure-to-break-within-four-minutes-of-purchase all-in-one things (confession, revised: I own one of those).

And yet people appear compelled to reveal with stunning speed — and, more irritatingly, excessive pride — that their homes are not equipped with televisions of any size or satanic sort.

How, exactly, am I supposed to respond to such a piece of information, coming as it does from someone I’ve only just met and who, aside from this deficiency (meant, of course, to be perceived as an attribute), seems quite a normal person?

I have experimented with various rejoinders:

"You must read a lot."

"You must have a lot of sex."

"You must not know who Kelly Ripa is."

All are met with pitying expressions. In fact, the mere idea that my house (confession, slightly tweaked: it’s not even a house. It’s an apartment. But it’s a duplex, and I swear the televisions are on separate floors) is home to not one but two boxes of doom inspires looks that seem to say, "You poor, glaze-eyed little monkey. You must not know who Charles Dickens is."

But in fact I do know who Charles Dickens is. And I know who Slobodan Milosevic is. I can name the 50 states (for extra credit, I might even be able to place them on a map). I have stood on four of the seven — indeed, I know there are seven — continents. I appreciate good food and red wine. I went to the symphony last week, and to the ballet the week before. I have friends.

But I also know who Simon Cowell is. I covet Carrie Bradshaw’s wardrobe. I have seen, in triplicate, every episode of The Brady Bunch. I can tell you the difference between Maternity Ward and A Baby Story, and that they both appear on TLC. I cried when NYPD Blue’s Bobby Simone died (though that was mostly at the thought of not seeing Jimmy Smits on a regular basis). And I can look you in the eye when I say that I did, in fact, watch a soap opera, quite religiously, for my entire high-school career.

So what is it about my owning a television that inspires such horror, such pity? Is it the useless trivia that’s no doubt swirling around the outer reaches of my brain during every waking moment (hell, it’s probably clattering about when I’m asleep, too), clogging up space that could be given over to some more-useful purpose? The fact that every moment spent in front of the television is a moment I could be using to climb Mount Everest, run a marathon, learn Swahili? Am I somehow less interesting, less smart, less funny, less attractive, because I’m partial to a Friends rerun before bedtime?

When I was growing up, most of my friends were allowed to watch as much television as they wanted, as long as they finished their homework and did their chores. My sister and I were limited to two hours of TV-watching a day, no negotiations, no exceptions. My sister, bless her clever heart, would turn the television off during commercial breaks so as not to waste a precious minute. (Now one of the smartest people I know, she only recently bought a television, after several years of living without. There is a tapestry draped over it most of the time.)

I’m not saying I advocate excessive television-watching, especially for kids, who are working through the most important years of growing, learning, discovering the world. But, Jesus. I like my television. I like both of my televisions. And I don’t think that makes me a bad person — maybe just slightly more prone to wanting a $400 pair of Jimmy Choos.

So if I meet you at a cocktail party, go ahead and tell me how you don’t own a television, have never owned a television, will never own a television, till death do you part with your complete works of Charles Dickens. I’m sure you and your TV-less home will be very ha —

I’ve got to wrap this up now. Will & Grace is starting, and I can’t miss it.

Tamara Wieder, who will not let you watch The Sopranos at her house just because you’re too high and mighty to own your own damn television, can be reached at twieder[a]phx.com