Whenever I find myself getting depressed about being alone, I try to remind myself that it could always be worse—I could be a contestant on “The Bachelor.” I realize this exercise does require the suspension of reality for a moment. First off, there are never contestants over the age of “32” (at least parts of them aren’t). Secondly, I do not wear a bikini in public out of fear I will be mistaken for an endangered marine mammal and find myself being tossed out to sea (which would be bad since I can’t swim). But seriously, there is no show on American television that does more for one’s self-esteem. This is way more life-changing than an episode of Dr. Phil.
Now, I admit, I’ve dated some losers in my time. I’ve had sex with inappropriate men. To humiliate yourself on national television for it? I think that’s just begging me to mock you. Setting aside my inner feminist who believes these “ladies” need some serious psychotherapy and a cheeseburger, I can’t help but be deeply entertained watching them cry, and cry, then cry some more on my tv that they are in their early 20s and can’t find a man to marry. HAHAHA! (Sidebar: I am trademarking the show where a 41-year-old divorcee tries to find 25 single, straight men with no baggage to choose a husband from.) Silly girls! It seems like a really smart strategy to go on a game show where you compete with 24 other beautiful women for the attention of some guy you’ve never met. I would insert a blonde joke here, but I’m pretty sure most of these “ladies” aren’t true blondes. It seems like the odds would be better in their hometown sports bar, but hey, if you don’t mind stripping down and jello wrestling for the chance to spend an hour with said strange man, then more power to you. I’m sure you’re a perfect candidate to audition for “Sister Wives” in ten years.
In another puzzling display of self-loathing, if by chance you are chosen one of the lucky three finalists (losers?), you win the chance to compete in the STD-exchange known as the “Fantasy Suite.” You get to spend two nights armed with the knowledge that your “boyfriend” is having sex with two other women, and you can’t even stalk or text him all night asking him what he’s doing. And all of America will get to see it go down (well, not literally because they turn the cameras off). If your test drive goes off without a hitch, you may get a proposal at the end. That, my friends, is true love. The lucky winner gets a giant, gaudy engagement ring you can’t wear until all of America watches your proposal and finds out you were the third stop on the love train and assumes you probably gave the best blow job.
Come to think of it, I was sort of on “The Bachelor,” only back before reality tv it was called “College” and there was no pretense of marriage. Thankfully, at least the public humiliation was only limited to the school. And thankfully I made it out without STDs.