Biggest Failure

Last week my wife almost divorced me. Because of reality television. Yes, I know. I’m not really a lesbian. I’m not really married to my roommate. But sometimes there really is no denying the fact that we are totally plutonically married. Like full on I cook dinner and she makes martinis and takes out the trash. We even have the ultimate symbol of a lesbian marriage: a dog that controls both of our lives. Lucinda couldn’t function without her two mommies. She doesn’t care that we sleep in different beds. I mean, isn't that what most married people do anyway? Besides, it’s a spiritual marriage, or at least that’s what we tell the neighborhood drunk who likes to ask me out. And while I do have a thing for eccentric MALE artists, I believe he takes this role a bit too seriously and perhaps should lay off the handle of vodka he drinks a day. And maybe get a job. And take a shower. It was sad to see, however, how heartbroken he was to hear that I had abandoned the heteros and switched to the other side, albeit somewhat relieved (it finally explained why I had been denying him all these years).

And at times, my wife likes to remind me that I’m being absurd. Neurotic. And insane. Which, in truth, is far too often. And this is fine. It really is. Like I’m totally aware of the fact that I’m crazy. They say self-awareness is the first step to getting help, right? The other night I got so crazy about The Biggest Loser that I almost forced her out of our cozy little tv room. I disrupted our domestic bliss with my biting (hopefully also hilarious) cynicism. She threatened to go to bed early and read a book. In her room. With the door shut. All because I couldn’t keep my verbal diarrhea hatred from spewing out of my mouth. She said, “Jesus Christ, Linds. Why don’t you go fucking blog about this?” So I shut up and stored up all my bad thoughts for this blog entry. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And hating it. So here I am, fucking blogging about reality television. And for the record, this is so not what I’m in to.

Okay. Refocusing...

The Biggest Loser. I hate this season of The Biggest Loser. In my advanced, superior, cinematically-gifted opinion, I believe this show actually has become the biggest loser; the biggest, meanest, most over-exploited waste of television space on the air in 2010. I can’t even wrap my head around how much I hate this show this season.

Which is weird, because the first time I watched it, I was obsessed. I was into it. I was inspired by the stories of the people who were putting everything they had into losing weight and transforming their lives. By the end, I was really pulling for them. I think I even went to the gym a few more times (which would round out my yearly average to 7 visits, as opposed to my traditional 5).

So tell me why do I feel like I’m watching a horrible infomercial this season? Why do I feel like the trainers have transcended compassion and understanding and replaced it with misplaced anger and cruelty? Like am I just being overly defensive because I too am “medically obese” and think there’s no problem with having nachos as a meal? Like, is that really so wrong? C’mon Jillian. You know that Taco Bell you fake-gagged yourself over tasted delicious. When the cameras turned off you rubbed that Grilled Stuffed Burrito all over your face and moaned with pleasure. The people on set were appalled. Don’t try to hide it.

I can’t help but feel like the producers of this show have forgotten that at the core of this, these are people with legitimate diseases. With health disorders. Medical conditions. And extreme emotional connections to food, eating, and self-image. Important, symbolic, and even cultural reasons why they're obese. I don’t think making these people feel worse about their lifestyles is really the right approach. Like I hope there are suicide specialists working with the trainers, because if someone treated me this way, I’d definitely take up cutting. And maybe the eating disorder I’d develop would help with the dropping of 30 lbs a week.

Can we get some Weight Watchers up in this show? I’d much rather watch 12 contestants counting points at the Applebees and watching Access Hollywood on the tv while jogging on the treadmill like everyone else I know in the month of January, than see Jillian or Bob screaming at someone until they fall over with heat-exhaustion. And Bob, what’s up with the gaunt heroin-chic look this season? Trying to get a job as a Dolce & Gabbana model?

Like grab me a can of frosting, wife, and bring up a box of vanilla wafers. It’s time for the Biggest Loser.

Epic failure. Let’s hope Brett Michaels soon starts another reality show so that I can remember why I really do love reality television—washed up rockstars with diabetes looking for love with French prostitutes. I mean, what else is there in life?

sidenote: I've been told three times in the last week that I should have a reality television show. Between my ever-hilarious love life, my insane family, and my bizarre plutonic marriage, people would totally watch me. Maybe then America could watch a show about a girl who weighs more than 100 pounds with self esteem. What an idea.

additional sidenote: Cara is never allowing me to watch Biggest Loser again. Ever. And I’m okay with this decision.