Well, I’ve already confessed about my weekly massages (and managed to convince you, not to mention myself, that they’re necessary for work) so I guess I have no choice but to come clean about my other main indulgence (barring chocolate, because I somehow feel certain that’s going to come up in Mia‘s entry this week).
Reality TV. I’ve done a decent job of justifying this one — going on TV shows as a “reality show pundit/expert,” writing a blog about the topic, essentially attempting to make this brain cell-deteriorating activity of mine seem like an absolutely necessary part of my work life.
Nevertheless, it’s difficult to explain, even to myself, this uncontrollable need I have to watch the dregs of the dregs. You see, I don’t crave the home improvement shows, with the tears and the not-polished-and-shiny people and the socially conscious message.
No, what gets me sucked in are the ones with the prettiest people who have the worst values and the most vacuous lives: The Real World, The Hills and anything else remotely in that genre, the more annoying and horrific the cast members, the better. Somehow watching perfectly-bodied twenty-somethings avoid carbs and drink too much and do things they regret and claim they’ll never do those things again only to do them again by the next episode (thanks to the wonders of editing) seems to thrill me in a way that I can’t quite describe. The shows make me feel superior and envious and judgmental all at once in a way that other brain candy activities (perusing Us Weeklyj, say) can’t.
Watching them is free and not fattening — how many secret indulgences can claim both of those?
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