This guest post comes from our first repeat guest blogger, Liz Riggs. If you missed her first post on The Bachelor you should definitely check it out as well!
It’s official: Ben Flabjlekwrjfjlkds has officially become America’s most hated bachelor. And Courtney has gotten hotter, more irritating, and established herself as the most frustrating person to watch on TV. Listen. We all know what happened. Lindzi rode horses all throughout the Swiss Mountains on the finale and we realized we knew nothing about her except that she was maybe from somewhere near Seattle. In fact, I think Ben actually used that as one of the integral pieces of her personality that his family should know about her. She still wore too much make up and had what appeared to be rotting pieces of straw sticking out of her head, just drawing more attention to the fact that Courtney is really hot. Like, seriously, have you seen her? Ben, she’s really hot. And so we sat through two hours of mind-numbing horseshit, watching Ben make the biggest mistake of his life. But hey, his big sister, whose face looks like Ben’s was photoshopped onto a female body, thinks Courtney is the bees knees. And now the asshat couple will live happily ever after for three months until they realize they have no mutual interest besides drinking copious amounts of wine and not appreciating tabloid hate.
Now, we could talk about their cultural uselessness as a couple all day. Instead, I suggest we get down to the overall attraction of the show, or, shall I say, the motherf-ing problem: Think about this. We all know Lindzi was standing there in her 1980s prom dress and Batman cape wondering why she wasn’t allowed to bring a horse to the most humiliating moment of her life, yet we all used this moment to validate our OWN stupid relationship decisions. At least the whole world doesn’t know I love horses that much, some women were thinking. At least I didn’t sleep with a guy who was simultaneously sleeping with at least 2 other women that week and could potentially dump me on national television the next day! At least my hair doesn’t look like THAT! At least I didn’t ask “what did I do wrong?!” on a widely broadcast television moment. Except that you did. You just asked it in front your best friends, sobbing into a gallon of Ben and Jerry’s and drinking Franzia straight from the box.
But hey, at least the whole country couldn’t see it. Right?
Yet, therein lies the problematic attraction of this show. These people shouldn’t make us feel better about our own relationships; they should make us feel worse about humanity! Here Lindzi is, probably wondering if she had used one of those thirteen sex toys Ben suggested, then maybe she’d still be on the show! If she had maybe done one less layer of extensions, he’d probably still like her? And here we are, watching, thinking, girl, there’s f-ing nothing you could have done. Yet haven’t we all sat in the same place and wondered the exact same thing before? Like, oh-em-gee, what should I wear? Because, naturally, if I pick the orange shirt and not the pink one, he’ll probably want to marry me someday. (And let’s face it, you’re not getting anywhere with the orange or pink shirt). Or, maybe if we go on a gondola ride through the Panama Canal, it will be so romantic he’ll forget I’m dull and we’ll have sixteen babies! Or, if I just tell him six more times that I love him, he’ll probably decide he loves me. Ha. Face it, if he doesn’t say it back the first time—he never will.
So. Just because ABC gives us a broadcast of other people’s most pathetic moments doesn’t mean we don’t have any of our own. And just because we sit there and mock the scenes we’re watching doesn’t mean we all haven’t done something stupid, fallen for someone we barely knew, or better yet, tried to make out with Chris Harrison when no one was looking. We use these shows to access our own shortcomings, because, hey, it’s a hell of a lot easier to watch someone else make an ass of himself than to actually do it yourself, right?