I’ve seen my fair share of personal bravery, but a couple of days ago on Facebook I witnessed a woman gloriously unafraid of being judged or even openly mocked by her life choices. This courageous soul blissfully admitted in a status update that she was looking forward to the TV show Southern Charm starting its new season.
For those of you with highbrow TV viewing habits, and by that I mean people who DVR Naked and Afraid and the Bachelor, let me briefly explain Southern Charm with two words – Bravo Network. Yes, it’s one of the many programs on Bravo that I believe select their reality show participants by having cage matches featuring hair extension tug-of-wars where the winner receives a role on a series but only if they agree to getting paid in plastic surgery gift certificates.
Now to be clear Southern Charm is not one of those “Housewives” shows. In search of a younger demographic Bravo has branched out to include under 40ish party mammals that are single, ready to mingle and don’t mind taking off their clothes after a cocktail. This show in particular is set in Charleston and basically it’s a bevy of self-centered Scarlett O’Hara’s (You know if Scarlett was a realtor with an affection for red Solo cups) perennially on the prowl for Rhett Butler 2.0. Short story shorter – it’s an old money train wreck with the thick as hound dog drool South Carolina humidity playing a supporting role.
So, I guess by now you probably think I must watch the show? You would be so wrong in that assumption. I don’t watch the show I devour it and I’m bereft with embarrassment. I know a scant two years I came clean about secretly watching True Tori on Lifetime, but that was different. True Tori (featuring Tori Spelling) I could claim as a biographical viewing choice and a study in narcissism so severe that not even your billionaire mom will give you some Kohl’s cash or even a couple of $10 Bath and Body Work coupons to help bail you out.
I have zero excuses for my delight in watching Southern Charm. It’s garbage and I love it and I know it’s very, very wrong of me to love it. But wait, is it that wrong? Upon further reflection I think crap TV maybe good for your health. To prove my point I have mapped my emotional downturns and prescribed what Bravo TV show functions as mood lifter. Please feel free to pass this along to any friends in need or your therapist.
Feeling bummed that you’re poor? So poor that the library declined your card due to unpaid fines. If you want to know humiliation is this is it. I mean really who gets their library card declined? In my defense they were my son’s fines left over from an 8th grade school project. Did I mention he’s now 19? Anywho the show to remind you that “money can’t buy happiness” is The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Just 15 minutes in you’ll look at your chipped Corian kitchen countertop (Yes Corian chips. I don’t care that allegedly it’s impervious to a meteorite shower it’s not strong enough to withstand my family.) and thank the Lord that although you may not have buckets of money you possess enduring values that mandate underwear is never optional.
Sitting in the school pick up line, looking at your ragged cuticles and wondering what that God awful odor in your car is and hoping it’s not black mold brought on by a rogue Horizon chocolate milk container growing a CDC level fungus while simultaneously wishing you were anywhere but here? The RX for this level of depression is The Real Housewives of New York City. After watching one episode of these women bringing down the IQ of the Empire state by double digits you’ll feel immense gratitude that you don’t have to pay the equivalent of one year of college tuition for the monthly rent on a 920 square foot apartment.
Recovering from accidentally seeing yourself nude a three-way mirror and the 30-minute crying jag that ensued? Well, after you scrap your body and dignity off the bathroom floor head on over to Vanderpump Rules. Here you can gawk at the hot thirtysomethings trying to pass themselves off as twentysomethings waiters and bartenders and give yourself a big ol pat on your back fat as you rejoice in having an education that exceeds the fourth grade and that fact that you’re not doomed to living a life where the absolute highlight is posting shots of your photoshopped abs on Instagram.
Don’t you feel better already? I know I do. Seriously, I’m smiling while I’m spelunking in the back seat of my car on a quest to discover just what is causing that aforementioned odor.
Snarky in the Suburbs 