RedHotRomance

Every season, I say I won't watch it. That I can't stand another 12 weeks of watching overly made up, starved to the point of angry psychosis women frolic in a hot tub with a single, unworthy suitor. And yet, on my tivo this morning, there it was.

The Bachelor.

And after last season's debacle with that buffoon Charlie O'Connell, I think ABC has picked a winner. Why?

a) the bachelor is totally hot, in a burly, brawny, cornfed all American kind of way. Like if poetry spewing nancy boy Ryan Sutter (who that midget-handed, baby talking, annoying as all hell Trista picked on The Bachelorette) actually had a pair. And he’s a doctor who graduated from Duke, so he may actually have a brain.

b) the chicks are already going psycho, like the 33 year old doctor who told him she was ready to “reproduce,” and then flipped out when he didn’t pick her. Then she proceeded to grill a hapless production assistant on why he thought the bachelor didn't pick her.

SWEET!

But every time I watch, I get a little nauseated, watching these women regress back to junior high, channeling the most evil incarnation of their inner 13 year olds. But I can’t stop. Instead I sit on the couch in smug superiority at their antics, amused and horrified that these (for the most part) attractive, successful, otherwise normal women would embarrass themselves on national television and convince themselves they’re madly in love with some joker after only a handful of dates.

And yet I write in a genre where couples fall in love at madly accelerated rates, are engaged to one another within weeks, and sometimes days of meeting each other. Maybe it’s our fault, perpetuating the romantic myth for these women to buy into, causing them to abandon all dignity and sense of self for a chance to land the so-called perfect man as defined by ABC television. Maybe…

Nah.

# posted by Jami Alden : 11:52 AM