For years, I’ve scrolled and eye rolled through post after post in my news feed from friends who are obsessed with this vapid, train wreck of a show. Friends with advanced degrees and vocabularies filled with words I have to Google seem to swoon over men who have to resort to a TV show to find a wife. And, my friends delighted in the cat fights, overuse of hairspray and so. much. cleavage.
And I judged.
I couldn’t understand why women would support a show where 20 women are throwing themselves at a man with questionable social skills. For 21 seasons, my friends have thrown season premier parties resplendent with roses and signature cocktails. And I have watched their social media meltdowns after the finale breaks their heart when so-and-so (the blonde one) got picked over so-and-so (the brunette one) again.
I would listen to my friends as they recounted episodes at moms’ nights out and I’d wonder, “How did we get here? What is this fresh hell? Why do we care that some girl named Emily just broke some guy named Arie’s heart?”
And don’t even get me started on The Bachelorette. I am unable to even with that level of fresh hell nonsense.
Or, so I thought.
Because, against my better judgement, and under the haze of a Nyquil induced fog, I caught the first episode of Season 22 three weeks ago.
I blame the Nyquil and my inability to reach the remote to save me from myself.