Right before I sat down to write this post, I decided to take my dog for his pre-bedtime walk. I put on a coat I borrowed from Hagrid over my TV watching outfit (people who know me will assume I am perfectly put together always. This is not true.) of a WWE t-shirt and paisley pajama bottoms, paired with UGGs. It is a charming ensemble, meant only to be worn in the dark of night and seen by my color blind dog. My brain, fogged over with Prosecco and visions of Kmart Kardashian’s thick, false eyelashes peeling away from her eyelids, didn’t think to pick up my keys and I locked myself out of my building. So, I stood outside in a horrible outfit, repeatedly dialing my landlord, who put me in touch with the building manager WHO DID NOT ANSWER. I stared down at my dog, considered whether or not being small gave him feline reflexes and maybe he could scale the wall and…no. No. Too many bubbles floating into my mind grapes. All sorts of terrible eventualities popped into my head and I was mere seconds from ugly crying, when an elderly Russian woman carrying a snifter of Brandy shuffled towards the door. I shouted “I AM LOCKED OUT, WILL YOU LET ME IN?” at her. She looked me up and down, and said “I save you” and then smiled and let me in.
As I walked up the steps to the 2nd floor and bathed in the warmth of my apartment that is almost never really that warm, I thought “you know what? The women who didn’t get roses tonight? They were saved, too.” From a life of being with someone so incredibly boring that he makes Jimmy Kimmel bearable.
A couple months ago, I went to an incredibly depressing Petco. It was in an otherwise bustling strip mall, but the Petco itself was empty. A grooming salon without dogs looks like a sex dungeon, and the straps swayed slightly in the air conditioned breeze. A handful of stray cats from a local rescue wandered an enclosure out front, pawing at a moth eaten fabric mouse. Behind a display of Princess Leia Slave dog costumes was an end cap of hamsters. There was one hamster in an exercise wheel, moving incredibly slowly. I watched it for a while, probably longer than I should have, when a Petco employee came over and asked if I wanted to see the hamster. I said “No, he just looks so sad.”
“No, he’s just always like that,” replied the teenaged boy matter of factly. “Just moves slowly.”
As I watch this season of The Bachelor, I am reminded of that hamster. I looked at Chris’ eyes as he contemplates which Palisades/Betty Ford Clinic escapee to keep around for another week, and I can almost see the tiny hamsters slowly walking on the exercise wheel that fires off synapses in his brain.
I never, ever agree with the fan favorite contestant for the next bachelor/ette, but my faith in the collective ability of American women to successfully choose a man who would at some point say “I love you” to them has been restored with the selection of Farmer Chris as this season’s Bachelor. I must confess that I find Chris to be boring and maybe a little bit dim. I mean, he seems sweet, successful, close to his family, and likely charms little children and old ladies with a bashful flash of his pearly whites. Adorable bluebirds probably help him put on his Carharts every morning. But not a single one of those characteristics provides for good television, and it makes me wonder how someone like him could still be single. Though I’m all in for a wonderful fairy tale love story, complete with trips to far flung destinations and dates that seem like they are crafted by throwing romantic words against a whiteboard, I am not in for three months of schmoop fest.
Because Chris is aggressively boring, it is clear to me that the producers of the show will distract us with an army of women culled from psychiatric wards across the country, and we will watch as they guzzle wine and test the limits of their liver vs. the anti-psychotic meds they are obviously taking and/or in need of. Then, the producers will edit out the real connection between the genuinely good dude Chris and some super sweet girl (a la Sean Lowe and Catherine Giudici) until the very end.