Internet, I have a confession. I like Bridezillas. Nay, I love it. There is something about the screaming, the hysteria, the manic-depressive behavior that I relish in. I like watching these women go bonkers over the slightest problems with whatever shade of pink their flowers are supposed to be for the mothers. There is something oddly and disturbingly soothing about knowing that my wedding did not have any of this ridiculousness, nor did any of the weddings in which I have been a participant. I sit, awestruck, like some kind of moth drawn to a flame. I watch, all the while thinking to myself, "I cannot BE-live these people AC-tua-LLY exist."
My husband, however, is a different kind of guy. He does not sit like some horrible rubbernecker in traffic. This does anything but captivate him. These women are abhorrent to him, and he cannot change the channel fast enough.
So this weekend, I think, is my chance to catch up on all the Bridezilla goodness I've missed. He's not here. I have full remote power. The TV is all mine. So I am watching Bridezillas for approximately and hour and a half before I start to feel kind of dirty. No. Kind of terrible. Like someone who relishes in other people's pain. The schadenfreude that originally characterized the show for me has dissolved into something akin to pity and despair. My love for it is lost.
I still have Project Runway.
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