Tax day. There is simply no escaping April 15, is there? Comes every year like clockwork.
And, while I’m certain you all filed your returns weeks ago and are in no danger of penalty, here’s a proposition that makes an IRS audit sound like a tea party: being a contestant on ABC’s “The Bachelor.”
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the premise of the top-rated “reality” television program, it’s the story of one man who woos 25 women “in hopes of finding his soul mate.”
Frankly, I’ve never understood the concept of having 25 beautiful, allegedly bright young women claw each others’ eyes out in efforts to snag a man who apparently cannot even get a date on his own, but that’s just me.
I stopped briefly at “The Bachelor” on my way to MSNBC the other night and glimpsed girls in sleazy outfits risking injury atop a mechanical bull (not to mention the irreparable damage to their collective pride) to impress this season’s object of desire, 30-year-old Andy Baldwin, who’s being billed as “an officer and a gentleman.”
A gentleman? Sure, and Charles Schwab just personally called to tell me I’m receiving a million dollar return.
A little background on young Andy: he’s a special operations diver in the U.S. Navy, who lettered in swim on Duke’s varsity team in college and became a surgeon who raises money for Pancreatic Cancer research and competes in Ironman triathlons. Oh, did I mention his “doctors without borders” type trip to Laos to help the villagers there? Lastly, the guy’s drop-dead gorgeous with abs on which the U.S. Olympic ski team could practice their moguls.
Yeah, seems like he’d have trouble filling up a Saturday night.
Hmm. Sure, all the pretty people are easy on the eyes; but am I really supposed to believe randy Andy needs help with the ladies? And does seem like a catch and all but, does that mean women should be willing to turn themselves into fish food on national television just to try and hook him?
Thinking I might be coming down too hard on the show I am certain is the catalyst to Armageddon, I asked some other women for their opinion.
Marianne Novatny is licensed physical therapist, a wife and a mother who thinks the show should be deep-sixed.
“It’s the worst program on television today, bar none,” she said. “What kind of message are we sending to young women by encouraging them to sell out other women and themselves? Plus, it’s solely based on appearance; how shallow!”
Exactly. Because, I, too, could look like the bachelorettes if I wanted; I choose instead to have gnarled hair and sagging biceps and triceps in the name of the solidarity of sisterhood.
“Oh and that whole ‘rose equals beauty’ thing is bogus. It makes the women who don’t get the flowers feel like ugly ducklings,” she continued.
Yeah, we gruesome geese have feelings, too, you know.
Chris Carlton, a single twenty-something administrative assistant, dislikes the show for a different reason.
“What kind of girl could possibly kiss a boy who’s kissed all those other girls in the same day?” she asked me.
“You couldn’t pay me any amount of money to date a snake like that,” she said, clucking her non-forked tongue in disapproval.
I might have gone out with that guy briefly in college, but he soon slithered away; hissing something about me being too nice for him as whipped me to the curb with his rattler.
Forty-five-year-old Mary Vargis, mother of three nearly-grown bachelors, disagreed with Novatny, Carlton and I.
“You are taking it way too seriously. It’s just for entertainment. I think it’s funny to watch those girls go at it,” she said with a laugh.
Why am I guessing this gorgeous blonde always got the rose in high school? Hmpf.
Vargis told me she never misses the show because, “It’s so carefree and fun. They go to all these fabulous places and do these fun things.”
True, I can’t imagine anything more pleasurable than getting dumped in front of that famous “Hollywood” sign – not to mention the entire country.
Listen ladies, turn off that rotten, psyche-destroying show and remember that cute guys come and go; but real friends with be with you always — just ask my best pal Michelle, whom I met in kindergarten.
It’s like I always tell my almost 13-year-old niece: no boy is worth crying over; laugh with your girlfriends instead.
Besides, boys are stupid.