You’d think I’d be embarrassed but I’m not! I read romance all day long so I should be sick of love on Monday nights (8pm on ABC) but I’m not. My husband thinks the show is as interesting as watching paint dry, but I don’t care. He escapes by reading a French novel. I load my brain with juicy TV when I need to cleanse the palate from a day of reading, navigating the subway, and rushing to meet deadlines. Sean’s journey to find true love post-Emily kept me glued to the TV for two months. And now, I have post-partum and anxiously await The Bachelorette.
A devotee of scripted television, I came to The Bachelor late–right after my wedding when all I wanted to do was bathe in the glow of romance from sunup to sundown. My job has love covered by day. By night, while my sweetheart is reading Balzac, why can’t I watch real people find love in front of an audience? Chris Harrison must always host the show, of course.
After two years, I see how twisted it is to think that romance can happen this way–pitting 25 ladies against each other (at least one woman has to be insane) to win 1 movie-star handsome guy. Love can’t flourish in such an artificial way, can it? In front of everyone? With lots of choices? Fighting to the death? With one guy able to kiss so many women and not be seen as a player? Wondering who looks better in a bikini while jumping into freezing water? My feminist side is appalled, and yet, I still watch week after week because it gives me demented pleasure. My only question is what would happen if someone got the stomach flu?
As with my love for Cheetos, there are so many reasons why I shouldn’t watch The Bachelor. These reasons, however, have no control over my remote, which will stay tuned for more. Maybe Sean and his lady will be happy forever.
I just like the show…okay?