Roberta's Reality

Once a routine becomes old it becomes useless by virtue of its age. It becomes so automatic the energy driving it naturally reduces over time and the routine that initially motivated us to engage in a a healthy new habit, begins to self destruct when it turns into a mindless activity. Suddenly, without warning we are simply going through the motions. Effectiveness is destroyed by mindlessness. This is basically how I interpreted what Roberta was trying to tell me. I hope I got it right. It was her way of explaining to me why I needed to change something I had been doing for years but was no longer helping me the way it once did.

"Stop judging something on the merit of how long it lasts and start appreciating it only as long as it is effective." Roberta said. Once it is not longer effective then change becomes necessary for survival. No wonder she is so smart in the sciences. It was beginning to make sense.

I always saw change as bad but that would mean adaptation , survival of the fittest is bogus. Who the hell am I to disqualify Darwin’s theories based on my fears.

But when it comes to reality, then suddenly Roberta and I must part ways once again. I wonder if she will ever get me to come around to her way of thinking. I call her to tell her something really sad on a weekly basis lately. Stories of women around our age, late 40's, early 50's becoming widowed or dying themselves. Cancer, aneurysms, suicide, botched surgeries, foreclosures, bankruptcy, and of course, job losses were just some causes for the tragedies I would hear about whether through numerous grapevines including other parents at one of the schools my kids attend, our temple condolence email, or by reading the local suburban newspapers or facebook.

"Do not check your email! And stop reading the Daily Herald." Roberta said in an effort to cut off my sources of sorrowful information. "That is the problem with our society today. We hear about everything. When your father died we were in fourth grade and the only people who knew were our classmates, your relatives and the neighbors on your block. Now, someone dies and we hear about it in every suburb within a 50 miles radius. " It is too much. You can't fill your days with other people's problems."*

Then Roberta tells me I should watch "The Housewives of Beverly Hills." I hate reality television. Why does she watch reality shows which she admits to being addicted to, but does not want me calling her up with "real" reality? I am so confused.

*Editor's note: There is no editor. And I am paraphrasing Roberta because I do not have a good enough memory to recall exactly how she says things. I hope she does not sue me.

Really??

Soon our world will be divided into two groups:

1. Those “starring” in reality television shows.

2. Those watching reality television shows. (Aka the audience).

Recently, I was channel surfing which does not burn up nearly as many calories as real surfing but I am hydrophobic and a girl has got to get exercise anyway she can. I fell into the abyss of the “The Bachelor.” It was scary in a Ray Bradbury kind of way. No giant monsters or mad slashers, just an insidious descent into a self induced trance. My brain was being destroyed while my eyes were feasting on Brad’s good looks. I heard later on he is a schmuck from a regular watcher, but hey Reality TV is a lot like college. We are pretending to go for knowledge but it is really just an excuse to look for the next party.

As I watched Brad on a couch with his choice I kept wondering why does the guy get to choose? Later on I learned there is the same format for a reality show where the woman gets to choose. Is this true? Is this for real? I mean really, this seems like a rather difficult way to find a mate. Can’t these people go to a bar like I did? Hey, I have been married for almost 17 years. The bar scene works. Ahhh, but alas, no audience was there to watch me go on thousands (I am not exaggerating) bad blind dates, or sappy singles events organized by strangers. The only one watching my silly life unfolding was my mom and I assure you she never found it entertaining.

But Brad and the bevy of beauties begging for his narcissistic ass to be theirs for the kissing had a loyal audience. Millions of Americans watched as Brad and bimbo after bimbo, oops I mean bathing beauty after bathing beauty, soaked up the sun and experienced fabulous adventures called “dates”. I am guessing most of the audience was female, and I would feel perfectly safe in assuming (yes another dangerous sport that does not help with weight loss) that no one watching the show ever went on a “date” where they get to fly to another continent and ride on an elephant. Who would not feel wooed? How does Brad afford it all? Oh, wait, he doesn’t. It is the newest version of “Dutch Treat”, a major television network foots the bill for the dates and all you have to do is be very good looking to go.

Why exactly was Brad “chosen” to be “the bachelor”? He is movie star handsome. You see men are not the only ones who like to gaze upon physically superior beings with whom they will never be able to copulate. Hip Hip Hooray for Women’s Liberation. Brad is the male equivalent of a Playboy Bunny. In the good old days one never heard the Bunnies speaking. Their silence was as much a part of their costume as their cottontails and ears. Now we get to hear Bunnies thanks to Hugh Hefner sharing his life (reality hits again). This is why we have shows like the Bachelor. Male Bunnies are demanding equal time and pay.

Oh how I miss the good old days where the picture perfect people lay their one-dimensional lives in between the pages of magazines. Really, I do.