I also watched The Bachelorette. And Bachelor in Paradise. And all the Before and After The Rose shows. If this is sufficient reason to revoke my Man Card, I understand, as there were times after watching that I felt so much estrogen surge through my body I could probably get pregnant. The Bachelor is a gross and pandering train wreck of humanity; an unrealistic caricature of love and romance that puts the vomit in “this makes me vomit.” And I couldn’t get enough of it.
Why did I stop? Was it an emotional evolution into Enlightened Malehood? A gradual, social progression into becoming Sensitive Man Bun Guy? No, not at all. I’ve tried to get my hair to do that bun-thing, and it won’t.
The Bachelor: A Brief Review
For those of you who don’t live in Reality TV Land, The Bachelor is basically a game show where twenty physically perfect women vie for the love of one guy, who may or may not be a Master Class Instructor in Douchebaggery, and who definitely has been genetically modified to eliminate every air follicle on his body. At the end of each episode, Mr. Tool Belt hands out a rose to each of the women he thinks should hang around and dote on him, and gently/not-so-gently guides the losers out the front door. Mix in dates of completely unrealistic magnitude and a metric buttload of alcohol and hilarity ensues.
By the end of the season, we’ve eliminated all but two women, one of whom will be the lucky girl to get a wedding proposal from Brad (they’re mostly named Brad). Usually, it comes down to Courtney (they’re mostly named Courtney), the “Professional Sports Team Choreographer” with Daddy Issues Galore, and a face that underlies her majority-shareholder position in Botox. Then there’s Tiffany (they’re mostly named Tiffany), the “Entrepreneur” with a heart of gold and a child from a previous bad decision, who, in a stroke of Divine Intervention, actually has a shot at making Brad happy.
Rallying all six brain cells, Brad chooses Courtney. Tiffany is whisked off in a limo where she unleashes a torrent of snot and self-loathing to the camera. Brad and Courtney are in love for ten minutes, and their inevitable breakup is a blip on the newsstands. Hilarity ensues.
The Dysfunctional Aspiration
There is certainly some good old-fashioned voyeuristic fun in watching The Bachelor. Each episode is hand-crafted by the producers to create as much conflict and drama as possible. This is typically accomplished by mixing Borderline Personality Millennials with copious amounts of alcohol. This allows us viewers to watch the madness unfold from our self-righteous perch, knowing full well we would never make the stupid decisions spewing before us like a dose of Ipecac.
In all honesty, I also have to admit there was this bitter, sanctimonious side of me – the geeky kid who was rejected by the cheerleaders – that felt glorious redemption watching preternaturally hot women getting their hearts broken. Every week. On camera.
But it wasn’t my guilt or shame over this revelation that made me stop watching. I just turned the TV off. I know that seems anti-climactic, but that’s what happened. One week I was watching, the next week I wasn’t.
The Hours Add Up
Actually, it was more like one week I was watching, and the next week I understood intrinsically that I’m about 108 years old now, I’ve got maybe 23 seconds left to live, and I’ve got these kids to raise, this book to finish, this blog to write and this job that I apparently have to work to pay the freaking bills. I didn’t change or grow or evolve (which is an issue I’m sure I’ll deal with down the road), it’s just that my time with Brad & Courtney was done.
What it comes down to is this. When I was 32, I was backstage with my bandmates at the Fillmore in San Francisco. We’d just finished our opening slot for Hootie and The Blowfish. Right in the middle of one of their songs, Darius Rucker (Hootie’s lead singer), came into our dressing room with a bottle of Wild Turkey and said, “why don’t we let those boys jam a little while and we’ll do in this bottle?” We drank, we laughed, things got blurry, it was awesome.
I am terrified – just absolutely terrified – that twenty years from now I’ll say, “when I was 52, I watched The Bachelor.”
Turning Off The TV And Getting On With Your Life Pairs With: The 2020 Tous Les Jours California Chardonnay
Everyone knows you can’t watch The Bachelor without a ton of alcohol on hand. In fact, there are even a plethora of Bachelor drinking games. God knows, however, that you’re not about to crack open that bottle of 1982 Petrus for this show. Even for the final Rose ceremony.
That’s not to say that you don’t want to whip out the good stuff for your “Bachelor Party.” After all, getting plowed on a Monday night is always a special occasion. That’s why we recommend Tous Les Jours Chardonnay. At $15, it fits in with your budget. But since it’s available exclusively online, we’ve cut out the distributor cost and put more money back into the quality of the wine. That’s why Tasting Panel Magazine awarded it 90 Points. Check it out – it even comes with free delivery, which is the next best thing to your very own Brad. And probably better.