It was a difficult decision—but I think it’s for the best.
When I graduate and move to a new apartment, I’m going to cut off my cable.
I’ve come to the unpleasant realization that my reality television viewing habits, left unchecked, can easily consume my life.
It began innocently enough, when my friend Emily and I developed a penchant for really bad movies.
We’d seek out films with trite storylines, one-dimensional characters and sappy, predictable endings, and sit in the back row of the theater trying to suppress laughter and guess at upcoming lines. This accompanied a brief, inexplicable spell of watching infomercials for pleasure.
But I always thought I was above reality TV—my amusement at the mainstream entertainment media began and ended with ironic enjoyment of cookie-cutter blockbusters.
Shows like “The Real World” (a misnomer if ever there was one) and “Big Brother” were so lowbrow. I wouldn’t be caught dead watching them. Or so I thought.
Then came “Project Runway.” It sparked my interest—I liked the colorful, earnest cast of designers, and I loved to see the outfits they created. I enjoyed the show so much that I often read reviews and recaps of the episodes online, which led me to a blogger who also wrote recaps of “America’s Next Top Model.”
So I started watching ANTM. My friend Melanie and I began to make a custom of watching the Wednesday-night shows together.
It was addictive—not because of the inherent quality of the show, but because of the ludicrous pretension and lack of self-awareness possessed by Tyra Banks and the show’s producers. I couldn’t believe how seriously the contestants took the competition—in a world so utterly fabricated and removed from reality.
At some point—probably around the time when I found myself writing an encouraging note on Myspace to a runner-up on one of the cycles—I realized I’d become emotionally invested in the show’s world. To my horror, I realized I cared who won the CoverGirl money and the contract with Elite Model Management.
So I drowned my sorrows in “A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila,” “Rock of Love,” and “I Know My Kid’s a Star.”
By this time I was so deep into my addiction that I no longer even maintained the pretense of being intellectually aloof from the stupidity of the shows. My friend Hamdi and I spent many lazy evenings on her couch, exclaiming over the skanky girls vying for Bret’s heart and the pitiful antics of Tila’s suitors.
Then I came to an uncomfortable realization—I was cheating myself out of time I’d never get back—hours I could have spent playing with my son, or reading, or writing, or doing something productive.
It was a shameful thought.
It was so easy to get sucked into the artificial world of reality shows. They’re engineered to be addictively diverting. They’re supposed to keep us parked in front of the TV.
So I’m cutting off my cable. No more for me.
Just as soon as I’m done watching Flavor of Love.