Bachie’s choice in timepieces is amazing. I am not a religious Bachelor fan. I do not sit every week and watch every minute of both episodes however it is on my television while I fill in wedding paperwork, clean my fans, drink cups of tea and eat cooking chocolate from the melt packet hidden in my pantry for emergencies. On the occasion I have been known to tweet with a #TheBachelorAU and maybe even retweet or star-like Osher’s post twitter commentary, but I am by no means, a religious fan.
I may be known to bombard my three best friends in our messenger group with commentary on Heather’s ridiculous outfits (what was that furry thing this week???) Osher’s suits and very nice shoulders and Sam’s knee touching graces, but I am NOT a religious follower.
Bachie has a lovely watch. There are constant closeups of the glorious blue faced watch as he picks up and puts down roses; cuts between women’s faces of anguish and his watch with a rose. I really like his watch, but I am NOT a Bachelor fanatic.
I don’t really understand the concept to be honest. I’ve done some ridiculous and strange things to meet a man. I’ve been shopping with bananas (I don’t even eat bananas), I’ve been speed dating, internet dating, been to meet up groups and joined chat forums. I’ve been on blind dates and dates that weren’t even dates at all, and yet I would never consider The Bachelor (or as you all suggest Farmer Wants a Wife) as an option for me.
Why? Because I am a bitch. I spend my waking hours trying to be a good person. Sometimes I am narky and moody and may say some ‘un-nice’ things when people aren’t watching but, at the heart of who I am, I believe people are good and like Kid President says – ‘believe everyone should be treated like it’s their birthday every day.’ But something terrible happens to me the moment Osher steps on screen and the first ‘evening gown’ graces the stairs of that very fancy mansion. I become a hater.
I watch, but not religiously, The Bachelor, not to appreciate Sam’s journey to love or even share the stories of those women looking for love in all the wrong places but to hate on the ladies. Their dresses, their faces of torturous anguish, the unreasonable gestures of romance, the self professions of love and adoration for a man they don’t know, the fashion parade and Sam’s watch. (Seriously, one day I’m going to buy a man I know that watch.) The bitchy, snark comments I make to the three women I love the most in the world do something that I struggle to do for myself. They validate my self image as a woman.
Compared to these women, while all of them are sensational beautiful, they all have a major flaw. Whether it’s one of self obsession, vanity, no self awareness or just plain boring, it’s like they’ve been chosen specifically for what is ‘wrong’ with them. Almost like producers at the nominated network, and Sam of course, have chosen these women for their very beautiful coat hanger ability combined with their ability to hate and slag each other or live in vague cloud of denial. These concepts do not appear to align with the plight of poor Sam searching for a woman in this post-apocalyptic world where there are far less women than men. In a world where women are rare creatures and the only way of finding a suitable mate is to engineer a televised process where women are eliminated by a very good looking man who works with children and wears a fancy watch.
I am predominately happy with my life. I am on the way to being healthy (it’s a journey people!), my family are amazingly loving and close to functional, I have more pairs of shoes than I could ever wear in a lifetime, I have a job that makes a difference to those I see everyday and a part time hobby that brings me nothing but joy. I am also moody, fat, not as rich as I’d like to be, sometimes neurotic and obsessive, too aware of my own emotions and expect too much of others and myself. And like these women on The Bachelor, I have a fatal flaw (or a few, but who’s counting). While mine are not broadcast on national television, I live with them daily. Just like every other woman I know. But while watching these very attractive women live with theirs and have them manipulated and slapped together by a network that doesn’t really know them, I get to be thankful of how normal I really am.
I get to watch these batshit crazy women declare their undying love and affection to a level I haven’t seen in any of the weddings I’ve ever performed. (And all the people I’ve married are so in love it sometimes makes me nauseous to think about it. Lucky I love them.) In a pale comparison to these women, my batshit crazy I can almost consider normal. Like I am a woman with a real possibility at getting all of those things that I tell myself I’ll be happy without; a loving relationship with a prince and a life where ball gowns are a regular occurrence.
It generally takes me a very (very, very) long time to tell a man that I like him. (if ever…) I make jokes about handing out socks and I write stories about sex I’ve forgotten how to have, but when it comes to men, outwardly declaring my feelings for a man takes guts, giant ovaries and definitely some big frilly knickers and outwardly worn big girl pants. And this these women have that in spades. I force myself into missed deadlines, intention suggestive text messages, verbal hints and passive aggressive taunts that internally scream “Why can’t you read my mind!” yet these women are out there telling the world that Sam is their man. I believe their search for fame, the rabid frenzy of all woman mansion living and fancy dresses may have clouded their judgement and brushed over their real feelings about Sam but there is no denying that their intentions are obvious.
So amidst my scorn and heresy of their resting bitchface, the white cut out dresses that shouldn’t be seen on anyone over the age of sixteen, the cheesy dates, the Jamie Lawson songs that are actually about death and false declarations, I need to embrace the ballsiness of these train wrecks. These women can teach me something about honesty and vulnerability. They can also teach me something about dignity, self respect and wardrobe malfunctions, but I need to lay off the slagging and simply tell a man he doesn’t need any roses to get me. He just needs a new watch and to accept that my batshit crazy is a much better option than anything else that’s laying about. Afterall, I was always going to get a rose anyway. It doesn’t count that I’m just the last one left when the others walked out. Honest, it was always mine!
life in big frilly knickers 