I’ve tried to write a review of the TV show “the Bachelor” several times now. I would always get approximately two sentences in, and would suddenly become so disgusted with the representatives of my gender in the show that I could write no more.
Now, given, I have watched maybe ten or fifteen minutes of The Bachelor total. Still, I think I have seen all I need to see. It’s mortifying.
Mr. Perfect, who really appears to be an ineloquent hick who must have got his hands on some family money, gets to pick from a group of attractive gals that he has the honor of “dating”. Before he decides which ones he will spare, he watches videos of the girls appealing to his sense of…well…all sorts of senses. Then, he chooses who makes it to the next round.
To describe one girl who appeared on the show:
“It’s just that *sniff* on our date, *sniff* I really think I started to feel something (insert lone tear streaming downward here). I just hope he picks me.” (Cue extreme waterworks.) Then, they show some footage of their “date”. He kisses her. She thanks him. That’s right, she thanks him. She says, “Thank you”. Audibly. Pathetic!
If I was there, I would have given her a good, hard, soap opera-esque slap across the face. “Pull yourself together, woman! He’s Opie!”
You do not thank a man for kissing you. In male-female sexual relations, thanks should be reserved for selfless sexual intercourse when one party has a throbbing headache and a list of stuff to do but still takes half an hour to indulge their patrner’s sexual needs. And you really don’t even need to say “thanks” then, either. (Not that I’m saying you shouldn’t, mind you. You should. And maybe even buy them something next time you’re out.)
Two girls on the show walked out when it was time to pick the chosen few. Ironically, they appeared to be the only minorities on the show. They stated that they knew some girls really wanted to be with the Bachelor, and didn’t think it would be fair to them.
What they really should have said is, “When they signed me up for this, they promised me I would meet someone wealthy, intelligent, and handsome. You don’t appear to be these things. I am done wasting my time. You are the weakest link. Goodbye.”
(Wait…I just got confused between stupid TV shows. Sorry.)
The Bachelor is an exercise in female degradation, and no, making a corresponding Bachelorette show will not make me feel better. The show trivializes the importance of establishing a respectful, caring bond between two people, and turns one of the most important relationships in your life into an “R” rated game show. And for the nutty dolts who actually like this fellow, I feel sorry that they have to watch him have other girls on his lap (amongst other things). But that’s not what you have to put up with to find a husband. (Well, unless your husband-to-be is in a band, but I both generalize and digress.)
Falling in love should be moments of trust coupled with moments of uncertainty, racing pulses and instant ease. It should excite you like a roller coaster and feel as comfortable as your favorite T-shirt. It’s wishes and dreams, gambles and sure things, putting your heart out and hoping he or she handles it gently. It will make you laugh and cry in the same day, it will make you stop dead in your tracks when you actualize what is happening. Truly falling in love is overwhelming.
Something so awesome shouldn’t happen in the company of competitors, and certainly shouldn’t be arranged by network TV.