Reality TV and Me [Ellie]

It’s a little known fact that early in our marriage Bryan and I were “Survivor” junkies. We watched together religiously every week, discussing and predicting, dissing and praising. We wondered why people would ever choose to put themselves through such physically and emotionally grueling trials. Surely the mere chance of winning the prize money couldn’t seem worth the vast scale of public humiliation? Slightly embarrassed about our low-brow obsession, we kept it to ourselves. We didn’t think any of our noble friends shared our passion. We were in the reality show closet. Our initial passion spent itself in a few seasons. We quit watching,and now we look back on those days with disdain.

For years, we thought ourselves beyond such childish pursuits. We looked down our noses at each new season of “Survivor” and at each new reality show clamoring for our attention. We were annoyed by the burgeoning field of shows, each seeming more seamy than the last. The whole idea of “The Bachelor,” for instance, evoked my special feminist ire, and not only because it reminded me too much of my own mental calisthenics over polygamy. I did find one show that I felt justified in watching during that time. Feel free to guffaw, but I loved (then and now) “Dancing with the Stars.” The “Stars” part may be a misnomer, but I liked watching it. Dance was a big part of my life growing up, and I loved having visual access to dance studios and performances again.

Fast forward to two years ago. Bryan was teaching every Monday night, and it was my laundry night. I faithfully watched “Dancing with the Stars.” Bryan still wasn’t home by the time “The Bachelor” started, immediately after “Stars” on the same channel. I still had laundry to fold. Gradually, out of boredom and mild curiosity, I started watching and quickly found myself hooked.

Maybe it’s that I have an addictive personality. Maybe it’s that I find it impossible to turn away from a train wreck. I’m not sure what it is, but I find these reality shows fascinating. The closest I can come to pinpointing their appeal for me is to state the obvious--that their contestants are NOTHING like me. No one would want to watch my life on TV, and I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t either. I sometimes become bored writing in my own journal. I try to make sensible, logical choices. I am routine-oriented. I try to avoid all drama in my relationships. This would make for a very bad show. No, these Bachelor and Bachelorette and Survivor contestants are compelling to watch because they are train wrecks. Just as my son Andrew can’t get enough of the car crash clips Bryan brings up for him on You Tube, I can’t get over watching these people crash their lives. There’s a reason these people are still single; they seem to have not a clue of how to make themselves happy. I honestly have no idea why they behave as they do, so hearing them explain it in their earnest, just-between-you-and-me, commentaries seems to me like an opportunity to learn the ways of an alien species.

I’ve always found dysfunction fascinating. Before reality shows, I think it must've shown itself in my craving for tragic literature. The sadder the ending, the better I liked the story. I can only guess that it’s because I’ve always been cocooned in the stability of my own life—both when I lived with my parents, and now. I have to wonder if I would find these reality shows so scintillating if my own life had been more turbulent. I certainly know the opposite is true—if the contestants were more like me, I would never watch them.

Anybody else have a reality show confession?