The time that I got a tattoo was because I couldn’t get my tongue pierced. I wanted my tongue pierced because someone on the Real World had their tongue pierced and since the Real World was the epitome of cool, then I had to have my tongue pierced as well. It all makes perfect sense and so why I receive looks of absolute bewilderment when retelling this story is beyond me. The same goes for the looks of absurdity and questions of how hard I far I fell when I was a mere babe, when I mention that I’ve been watching the same show for 15 years. For I am 23 so I have been watching seven people get real for almost my entire life. Which is really, really sad if you think about it and no, I do not have parents, the television and my booze drinking nannies did all the hard work.
(Hi Madre! Thanks for paying for those piano lessons!)
It was more that I snuck in my Bunim-Murray fix on random afternoons while hiding in the den. I still get my Bunim-Murray fix that way because seeing two drunken girls kiss in a hot tub causes my mother to break out in nasty open sores and convulse. Sometimes I make her watch on purpose because it’s some sort of medical mystery and when the doctors ask me about the rash that developed on her arms and the current catatonic state, I can say “It’s because Brooke and Jen were nude and kissing in front of Tyrie.” Most people just embrace the trainwrecky goodness dipped in ranch dressing, but my mother goes into a coma.
She hates MTV. She hates it with the white hot fire of a thousand suns on a July afternoon in Barstow. She also has taste and intelligence. Her daughter has intelligence but also enjoys watching people behave like imbeciles in public. Because then she can relish in the fact that for once it’s not her becoming so inebriated that she falls out of a shower. It’s someone else’s child. This addiction to MTV has outlasted years and years of schooling and I’ve been known to enjoy countless hours of Laguna Beach when down the street from the Atlantic because looking away would mean missing LC’s slippery slope to missing out on Paris. There may or may not be shouts of “you stupid whore” at the television.
I received an email the other day from Isabel who knows of my well documented dependency of MTV reality television and asked my thoughts on the new show “Engaged and Underage.” Though I’d heard of it, I had no intention of watching it because for now I’m busy worrying about Marcel vs. Ilan: Battle of Foam and Flambé to think about such drivel. Though I can be judgmental if there is one thing that I can see past and defer to someone else on how they truly feel is when it comes to their relationships. The show follows around couples 21 and under as they enter into marriage. Of course it seems crazy to me and of course I am incredulous to it all because I am not in such a relationship that marriage is in the foreseeable future. Nor do I plan on entering into such a relationship anytime soon. And my maturity level is very, very low and I refuse to share my bed with anyone and I’m 23. I am a 23 year old who only says ‘Til death do us part’ to her macbook.
Poor choices are made everyday at every age. So yes these are 21 year olds who are getting married and yes they might be making a huge mistake and their parents find them in dire need of a lobotomy for entering into the sanctity of marriage at such a young age because they could get a divorce. But then again 30 year olds make mistakes in their choosing of a partner as well as 40, 50 and 60 year olds. No one is immune to such a thing. And people of all ages are allowed to divorce. But for some reason watching 21 year olds enter into marriage and possibly fail, makes for some excellent entertainment. Do I agree with broadcasting it on television? Not necessarily. Do I watch eagerly awaiting for the first fight over dishtowels? Hell yeah. I’m human. I also am intelligent enough and have learned enough from those Reunion specials that sometimes things are skewed during production to make a perfectly lovely woman look like a raging hormonal bitch who gets her period 365 days a year. What might be perfectly innocuous argument looks like the beginnings of World War III over the difference between 'eggshell' and 'beige' for the living room wall. And damn it’s hard to look away.
*Quick example: My parents were 28 and 38 when they were married and got divorced when they were 32 and 42. The people I babysit for got married at like 12 and 14 and are still happily married seven or eight years later. See my point?