I had a very disturbing encounter the other day. I came home from a long Saturday afternoon of garage-sale hunting to find my living room full of friends and family.

My instincts told me what was coming. I had seen plenty of “Intervention” and knew it was only a matter of time before they confronted me about my eating disorder.

I like to eat. Food. Every day.

So as I strutted into the room (and you must strut when entering an intervention, it is imperative to set your position of strength) I tried feverishly to slide the three-meat, double-cheese Hoagie I had behind the velvet painting of Elvis I had purchased.

I looked into the judgmental and pity-filled eyes of my loved ones. No sense in pretending any longer. This was it. I had been eating my whole life for this moment. In my head I conjured the defiant nature of some of the protagonists I had seen in “Intervention.”

If Chuck Norris were here, he'd roundhouse kick something. I am not Chuck Norris. So I did my equivalent.

“What's up everybody?” I asked as I quit attempting to hide the food. “Is it go time?” Then I brazenly took a big bite. I was not going down without a fight.

“Intervention,” which airs Friday nights on A&E, has prepared me for this. The show designed to help individuals kick their bad habits has inadvertently become a tool on how to combat said confrontations.

I opened with the classic I've got no problem; they were the ones with the problem! I immediately followed with falling to the ground, frantic and screaming how no one understood or loved me.

Everyone just stared, speechless with wide doe eyes. I had them on the ropes. I then ran to the fridge and began flinging food into the living room.

I started screaming incoherently, tears streaming and ran out the house. Victory was a Chinese Candy and a pickle. And I was sucking it.

Three hours later they found me a few blocks over, naked, covered in bean dip and rocking back and forth mumbling about how, if used correctly, pork rinds can be methadone for fat people.

It was indeed time for a change. But maybe not where I was expecting. I sometimes can take TV to unsafe limits.

See, I forgot it was the playoffs and that we had invited everyone over to watch the Spurs that day.

Again, I misinterpreted, overreacted, turned to TV for wisdom, and ended up naked and covered in bean dip. That's four times this year already. Once more and technically I can be considered addicted to it, and that can mean only one thing.

Intervention.

Where's my remote?