Reality Bites

I don’t watch Reality TV.  I don’t understand the point of it.

I blame England for this scourge we’re living through.  When I lived there ages ago, I used to search for something to watch at night, some nice drama or melodrama or comedy.  Instead, Realty TV.  I thought to myself, who would want to watch this?  It turns out everyone but me.

I just don’t understand it.  I know participants are making money out of this exposure, but that’s just it.  It’s exposure.  It’s like writing a memoir when you’re twelve.  Aren’t people just satisfied to live their lives anonymously and make the best of it?  Obviously not.

Okay, I will confess to having watched House Hunters and House Hunters International a few years ago.  But I thought, who are these people?.  They always seemed to pick the worst house they were shown.  (Although now I’ve been clued in that it was all fake, that they already owned the house and the realtors are sometimes not realtors at all but friends or actors.)

House Hunters International:  Have you noticed that they all want an extra room for guests, whom they’re sure will be popping by at least once a month, even if they relocate to Siberia?  Are they serious?  The price of an airline ticket?  The hassle of dealing with the airport?  Then staying in a cramped room, basically a closet, and sharing a bathroom?  What is wrong with a hotel?  People need privacy!

Well, okay, I need privacy.  I still remember a stay at a motel, where I eavesdropped and learned that two couples were sharing a room with two queen beds.  So maybe something’s off with me and not the rest of the world?

I suppose it might be a matter of everyone wanting to be seen.  Nothing’s happening in life, so why not get your heart broken on television; or definitely you’re going through therapy and the world needs to sympathize with you because you had lousy parents and your husband/wife no longer is attracted to you because you’re on a weight loss drug and have a new image of yourself.

Real estate?  Yes, real estate could be fascinating if the shows were about real estate.  Instead, judging from the stories I can’t avoid, everyone is feuding with everyone else and backstabbing; and frankly, are they actually selling real estate?

Real housewives everywhere are being splattered across the tv screen.  First of all, are they real?  The plastic surgery seems to suggest otherwise.  Second, are they housewives?  Does anyone admit to being a housewife anymore—unless they’re on television?

The crime shows:  I will admit to watching a few because my daughter is addicted.  When we travel, she has to watch them to fall asleep.  One time she had the motel tv on a timer.  She fell asleep while I was still awake.  The denouement was coming and all of the sudden the tv went off.  I never found out who the killer was.  Have you noticed the suspects all seem to be subjected to multiple trials before a “just” verdict is rendered?

Maybe I’m just not in tune with reality anymore.  I have to admit to reading fiction and not non-fiction.  My only non-fiction is the copious magazines I read while having lunch.  I will admit that some of them are gossip magazines, which is where I run across way too many reality “stars.”  But if you want to feud, which everyone seems to be doing, why not keep it—privately—in the family.  There must be someone who took your dead mother’s earrings when they were promised to you.  Or what about your brother who went to private school while you were consigned to community college?

There are ways to live your own reality tv.  Maybe keep a diary of every day slights. You’d be surprised how fast these will mount up if you try.  Who knows.  You might get your own show out of it.