Posted by Sarah
My ability to resist the pop-cultural wiles of reality shows used to be a source of great pride for me. I’d watched the second season of American Idol before declaring the whole genre ridiculous and ascending my high horse.
A few years ago, I accidentally flipped to The Amazing Race during another show’s commercial break, and ended up watching all of Season 7. “It’s OK,” I told myself. “This is one of the high-end reality shows, and I’m only watching to root for the old people.”
Some time after that, Season 4 of American Idol started, and I got sucked in again. I blamed it on Bo’s gritty charm and the fun of counting Constantine’s smoldering glances, and while it was as good a way as any to pass the time, that season was the end of my Idolatry. I thought I was cured of reality shows forever, my confidence bolstered by every preview of the next hot, vapid new hour of television.
But NO…
Last year, I somehow managed to get sucked into Pussycat Dolls Presents: The Search for the Next Doll. I was indignant: “ME? With my liberal arts education from a women’s college and my unwavering dedication to feminism — I’m watching a band I don’t even like search for a new cookie-cutter piece of eye candy? What is wrong with me?” But despite my inner protestations, I couldn’t stop watching. I got attached to two of the contestants — Anastacia and Chelsea, neither of whom won — and developed major animosity for others (one of whom DID win).
This season, I tried to promise myself that I wouldn’t watch ANY reality television. It seemed easy enough — the offerings didn’t appeal to me at all, and I have so much going on this fall that, aside from the three shows I actually plan to watch regularly, I shouldn’t have much time to spend flipping channels and accidentally falling victim to the illogical but irresistible lure of reality shows. Piece of cake, right?
Wrong.
The show I most hated the idea of — the one I absolutely, under no circumstances would stoop to watching because it looked like the height of ridiculousness — had a two-hour premiere last night, at exactly the time my computer was being used by someone else and I was sitting down for a pre-pilates snack. Danger, Will Robinson!
I’m referring to Beauty and the Geek.
I just … couldn’t … look … away. The auditions for the “beauties” were horrifying. Women like this really exist? Apparently, and in DROVES. The “geek” auditions stole my heart — I love them all and I want the best for them. Apparently the geek in me — the sci-fi-obsessed introvert who played D&D in elementary school, read all of Tolkien’s works in fourth grade and who was entirely awkward and unsuccessful when it came to fashion or relating to the opposite sex — was touched by these guys. They’re adorable. Their excitement at spending the season in a mansion with nine girls who are the culturally accepted definition of “hot” but don’t have a brain cell among them makes me happy, because it’s their dream and it’s coming true. Even the premise of the show — each awkward, brilliant geek is paired with a superficial, confident girl in a mutually beneficial effort to help each other grow in the areas in which one is lacking but the other excels — seems harmless enough, and fun.
Am I crazy? I feel a little crazy, looking for something positive about a reality show. Am I just justifying my weakness, or is there actually something worthwhile (or at least not despicable) about reality television? The jury’s out, and while part of me always will do its best to keep me busy enough to avoid the temptation of weeknight reality programming, that part just might find itself occasionally locked in a closet while I check in on my geeks — just to see how they’re doing. I won’t really watch.