I’ve been reading two new memoirs in the last couple weeks—Fury by Koren Zailckas and Poser by Claire Dederer. What these books have in common, besides being wry, well-written, thought-provoking, soul searching memoirs, is that they are rather depressing. Sorry, ladies, that’s not meant to be a diss and may very well be more of a reflection on me than anything else. You see, when an aspiring memoirist (me) reads about other memoirists’ accounts of facing their deep anger, insecurity, control issues, and struggles to be writers while maintaining relationships and raising children, it’s bound to get a girl down.
Yesterday, after ranting to my cold-ridden husband about my fears that having children will not only squelch my independence but ruin our prospects of ever hanging out together, traveling or having fun again, my husband told me to put the damn books down.
I did. And here’s what I did instead: I watched The Bachelor.
So yeah, it’s a tad embarrassing to admit. But, there, I said it– I have an addiction going on. Whereas most reality TV doesn’t do it for me—Jersey Shore, pass. Real Housewives, no thanks. The Bachelor has me riveted, i.e. perched on the edge of my couch with a mug of tea and a bag of Trader Joe’s vegan cookies sporting a shit-eater grin for two solid hours. How can this be?
I think it’s because when I’m not busy being a cynic, I’m actually a hopeless romantic. And, yes, I do realize that The Bachelor is largely scripted (someone who worked on the show once told me so). And, no, my idea of romance is not competing with a dozen other spastic women for some hapless bloke. However, there is something about the pursuit of love, no matter how canned, that gets me every dang time.
Okay, I’m going to go back to writing about my feelings now.
Oh, and P.S. I’m voting for Chantal.