Last night I dreamed I was one of the final four on "The Bachelor." It was down to me, someone I can't really remember, and two others girls who were not especially smart, not particularly witty, and pretty in that slender, smooth-skinned, limp-haired way that reality TV contestants tend to be. They were perfectly, homogeneously average.
The thing that lingered after I woke up was the flash of relief I felt just after the Bachelor cut me from the final running. This was not a shock. Sure, he found me charming and engaging; I challenged him, made him laugh and think; he lit up around me. And why not? Intellectually, this was hardly a fair fight. But I knew I was on the next bus home because when it came down to it, I didn't look like the other girls. My hair is bright and messy. My eyes squint when I smile -- it's an ethnic thing. My hips are round and my belly is soft. My rear end fills out a pair of jeans -- the kind of ass that snaps its fingers and shouts, "Whatchou lookin' at, mothafucka?!"
I've been described as unique-looking; interesting; adorable, even...but I am not made for TV.
There are two types of people: Those who make impulsive choices based on what pleases their eyes; and those who do their homework. The Bachelor in my dream picked his girl the way a frat boy buys a Porsche from some guy named Shady Brady, just because he digs the look and what it represents. The impulse buyer is not an educated consumer; he thinks not of reliability, enduring style, or what's going on under the hood. He sees only the streamlined body, and he's usually shocked when the car craps out on him in the middle of the highway.
I have dated those guys, and I have slept with those guys, and let me tell you: They are shitty drivers.
Thank God he didn't pick me.