"We that are true lovers run into strange capers;
But as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly."
--From As You Like It (II, iv, 53-56)
I am mere mortal and I have many loves of which some would see as "folly." That devilish phrase "guilty pleasures" comes to mind. Guilty pleasures, oh, I have a few.
There are some things I enjoy that I can proudly talk about. Socially acceptable areas of my "likes" that I can put in my facebook "About Me" section without feeling I will be judged too harshly. For example, biking or cooking. I might be looked upon as some sort of 45-year-old woman but, heck, atleast those are two acceptable activities.
Then, there are those dreaded likes...the ones no one should hear of let alone write down on an blog for all the world to see. Mostly these menacing loves come from the entertainment world. Yet, they are loves that my Communication degree, and any ounce of high culture I thought I was exposed to, yell at me "NO! TURN THE TELEVISION OFF! WALK AWAY!" But, I can't. And so I am a woman scorned with the love of many an unacceptable lover.
Nothing gets me going more than a good, or terrible, romantic movie. I sincerely mean that, nothing. Even thinking about it now makes me rather watch something juicy and cheesey like The Notebook. I cannot resist watching one loveless teen find romance with the popular jock. I get my fix of terribly corny teen-love from the new flick She's the Man *based on Shakespeare's Twelth Night (Billy Shakes is definitley rolling in his grave). I cannot turn Bridget Jones off without watching its entirety and, more likely than not, crying at some point. When people ask me my favorite movie I can't scream out "I LOVE 13 Going on 30" because they will, rightfully, mock my choice of fluffy-girl-movie. Yet, when I see the zany trouble Jennifer Garner gets herself into I laugh like a true 13 year old. I have discovered that this guilty pleasure is a genetic disorder stemming from (no, not my mother) my burly father. Yes, my manly-man father pretends he doesn't want to watch Notting Hill but, as the credits begin to roll, I see the tear he hides in the corner of his eyes. He also bought the soundtrack to the movie...yep...its all in the genes.
Along with my genetic-disposition for the romantic-movie I have developed, from my mother, the love of all television that is terrible. She and I can go for hours without watching one television show of any substance and feel fine about ourselves seconds after we snap out of our shit-TV induced comas. We love us some old fashion variety show in the form of America's Got Talent and American Idol. Oh boy, oh boy do I love watching people do stupid stunts for the camera and singing their hearts out for judges. Critiquing others is far easier than thinking about my daily failures and gosh do I want to avoid those for atleast 2 hours a night.
Yet, if there is one television genre I have developed a love for, with no help from my parents, its that of Wedding shows. I don't care who the bride and groom are, how attractive they are (or are not), where they're from, their color schemes, or how hideous the bride acts on the the day of the wedding, I love every second of it. I love the drama, the exaggerated drama, the choices, the beauty (or crap) the wedding planner creates. Visions of what I would've done differently dance in my head along with the "Funky Chicken" as I imagine how long this couple will last. This morning I found one of my favorite couples ever (I can say that because I watch enough of these programs to have favorites). They were sweet and really went with the vision of what the planner was thinking (a Morrocan inspired wonderland of crystals and colors...I...LOVED..IT). But, why? Why this fascination with other people's weddings? My own wedding is years (I mean lightyears) away from this very moment I type and, yet, I can't get enough of their plans. I feel somewhat like a creep. I'm the wedding crasher just admiring the lovely centerpieces from afar. I'm a stalker of someone else's happiness. I am, in fact, a big weirdo.
Thus, I cannot speak of my love for Wedding shows. I must conceal my true desire to not think real thoughts and watch other fools on television do foolish stunts to make a buck. I hide away in my bedroom crying when the girl and the guy in my movie don't get together but then, because of something contrived, they do and everything is beautiful and victorious and I'm sure they throw a killer wedding that is hopefully Morrocan styled with crystals. Perhaps these guilty pleasures are what keep me from living in reality. Perhaps reality television is so far from the truth that, as a robot-viewer, I can pretend for a while that life isn't hard and simply solved in a nice package at the end credits.
Whatever, time to go, Whose Wedding is it Anyway is on in 5!