I turned off the show for good after the second go-around for Brad Womack, whom I found uncomfortably tanned and suspected was some kind of low-key serial killer, the kind who doesn’t get caught until decades after his death, when a burbling toddler pulls up an errant floorboard and discovers thousands of well-preserved skulls. I turned off The Bachelor (and its equally addictive but slightly less pernicious sibling, The Bachelorette) because I started getting this uneasy feeling in my stomach every time I watched it “ironically,” like I had just swallowed a little bleach, but, like, I’d done it ironically, so why was I still vomiting up blood? To completely defang a Yakov Smirnoff joke: I started to feel like I wasn’t watching The Bachelor anymore, but instead it was watching me. And what it was seeing were the shittiest parts of me: my tendency to get really judgmental, the streak of socialized competitiveness and misogynistic criticism that feminism hadn’t completely stamped out of me, my deepest fears about my real worth as a woman, my refusal to share my box of Kraft macaroni and cheese with my loved ones.
I Watched The Bachelor Finale, and It Reminded Me Why I Quit The Show Years Ago
