I recently went on a “Bachelor”-watching binge. Although I don’t like to think of myself as someone who would enjoy the show, I also don’t like to think of myself as someone who would eat chocolate cake out of the garbage or sleep with a stranger while in an alcohol-induced blackout, so clearly what I think isn’t nearly as important as what I do. I may have stopped drinking and binge eating some twenty years ago, but I happily hunkered down with my remote control to indulge in some real escapism.
The first thing I love to hate about this show is the premise—essentially, that it’s possible to find true love on reality television. I mean, doesn’t the idea of one man test-driving twenty-five beautiful women at once sound more like a polyamorous play date than an honest attempt at finding one’s soul mate? But hey, I guess that’s hardly the point. We all know that reality shows are to real life what Pringles are to the potato, and “The Bachelor” is not exactly what I would call soul food. I guess I’m just a hapless—er, hopeless—romantic at heart, who resents myself for still wanting to buy into “The Bachelor”’s premise and believe in the possibility of a happy ending.
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