Junk Food for My Soul

In my humble, perhaps misguided, and probably greatly-contested opinion, some of the most brilliant minds in recent history aren't those belonging to the disciplines of science or technology. Oh no. I totally give those props to the geniuses who developed and implemented the world of reality television. There is something magical and entrancing about watching real people living their existences right from the comforts of my own home. Oh, how I love reality TV. L.O.V.E. A million times over. Though, I must admit, I can't bring myself to watch "Jersey Shore" or "16 and Pregnant," and I'm not really into those shows that people can lose or get voted off. I like shows where everyone is a winner... if only in their own minds. You know, like Charlie Sheen.

Some people take valium or xanax to unwind and control their anxiety. Not me. All I need are some episodes of whatever Real Housewives I have in my DVR catalog. That's it. That's all. They relax me. Calm my nerves. Center me. I'm completely fascinated by the seemingly utter lack of inhibition these people have with regard to allowing cameras to film their every move. From shopping to eating to bathing to fighting to loving... I just don't know how they do it. But, I'm sure glad that they do.

Right now, the mad scientist of Bravo, Andy Cohen, has the network featuring the New York City housewives. A big shout-out to Andy, because there's so much to be thankful for with this season. I'm appreciative for Ramona's willingness to slam no less than 2 bottles of Pinot Grigio right in front of the camera and call out the Countess for her high and mighty behavior. I love that Countess LuAnn doesn't give a rat's ass that she acts like she's better than everyone else and that she really believes that she isn't tone deaf and that she thinks songs like "Money Can't Buy You Class" are catchy and good. I totally relish the moments where Kelly shows her true lunatic colors and absolutely doesn't make any sense whatsoever. Of course, there are Simon and Alex, who need no explanation. And we certainly can't forget the awesomeness that is Sonja Morgan, who truly enjoys and openly shares her whackadoodle perspective from the men she, um, 'entertains' to the "what the hell?" idea that is her toaster oven cookbook.

And, every time I watch these women in action, a warm rush of endorphins fills my brain, and I'm pretty sure the deep-thinking parts shut down to protect themselves. Almost instantly, my crazy seems normal by comparison. All of a sudden, I'm an amazing mother and wife. I'm grounded and well-rounded. I'm intelligent and thoughtful. I feel goooooood. I'm not the mother sitting her kids down to explain that I've decided to strip down and show my lady parts to the whole world for Playboy (by the way, I'm aware that nobody wants to see me without my shoes on, much less sans clothes). I'm not the friend who goes on national television to bash her best pals behind their backs (which begs the question: Don't they know that the woman who's bearing the brunt of the criticism can see and hear and will watch the show on TV? Jill Zarin?). If these people can walk around and think that what they do and say is all good, then I have nothing to worry about. Right? Right?

So, I appreciate my moments with reality TV. Don't get me wrong. I know there are other stress relievers. I exercise. I read. I garden. I do other stuff. I got it. But, lots of people do all that other stuff and medicate their brains. Well, reality television is my medicine. It's junk food for my soul. And I adore it.