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Andrew Firestone Picks His Bride

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I watched The Bachelor last night. My first ever complete viewing of a reality show, save for The Real World circa Puck. It was gut-wrenching, that final episode was. Drama, suspense, intrugue… it had it all.

We found ourselves actively rooting for the nice girl from Chicago, the girl we could all be friends with. We hissed and booed when that mean old Kirsten entered the scene. If she wins, we told each other, it means we have lost. If that guy, seemingly stable and sweet, picks the spite-filled and catty yet gold-digging primadonna, it means that there is no hope for any of us. It means our years of efforts to be thoughtful and considerate, educated and well-spoken–that all means nothing. Because we will lose to the girl with the better body.

Luckily, our television hero did pick the girl on our team, after many a suspense-filled commercial break.

We won!

Also to note that since this is a reality show I know something about, I can contribute something to office conversation. Usually I just duck my head and mutter something about not watching television. Not today.

Today I can begin a conversation with, ‘Did you see the Bachelor last night? I thought I was going to throw up when it looked like Jen was going to lose!’

Naturally, lively conversation ensues. Finally, since the time when the New Kids were hanging tough, I understand what it’s like to be part of popular culture. Giddyup.

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