I Need an Intervention

I am proud to admit that I'm not a couch potato. Despite my hectic schedule, I still make time to read or go for a walk instead of plopping in front of the tube in the evenings. I work with people who talk about all the shows they watched over the weekend and am amazed they can process that much crap.

But it's not all good news. I have a deep and dark secret that threatens to undermine my credibility and the respect of friends and family: I am fast becoming addicted to the god-awful Real Housewives series on Bravo. There, I said it.

Before you start condemning me about what a horrific show it is, how it supplants positive images of women with stereotypes and could very well signal the end of the world, hear me out.

First, I KNOW how bad this series is. And you know what? I don't care. I know there are good shows out there, like Lost and Glee and the CSI franchise. I'm just not someone who watches them. Much more tempting for me to watch these insecure broads talk smack about their friends, bemoan their physical imperfections and plan their ice skating parties. Sue me.

The hard part has been trying to explain my fascination with the show to my husband, who is by all accounts rational, empathetic and open-minded. When he came home last week to find me watching the Jersey episode, the first words out of his mouth were: "No. Are you effing kidding me?!" Now when I tune into the show I feel like a drug addict, like I'm doing something so shameful and destructive that I should be banished to a transitional facility where I can get help.

I think the worst thing is that I cannot articulate what draws me to these women. I would never be friends with any of them. I don't respect them that much and certainly don't aspire to live their lifestyle. So what is it? The classic case of witnessing a horrible car accident and not being able to look the other way?

Let's go with that explanation for now.