For the newlywed man, acceptance can be a long and bumpy road. The toilet seat goes down, the golf score goes up, and eventually you concede the inevitability of some really bad TV in your life.
Sure, I still get Mad Men, some Sportscenter and a good visit with Charlie Rose once in a while. But most evenings now, while pretending to read a presidential biography, I catch myself peeking from behind the pages, watching some mediocre blond "Bachelerotte," giggle her way through a dick fantasy. Or maybe it's a C-list celebrity cha-cha followed by conflict resolution with the Kardashians. Whatever the program, the rotting sensation in my brain is prevailed only by confusion -- why does my otherwise sophisticated, intellectually curious wife elect to bask in the glow of such nonsense?
It's her "guilty pleasure," right? Yeah, I get it -- it's the mindlessness we all need at the end of a long day. And if I felt that her TV indulgence was harmlessly contained within the confines of the flat-screen, then let it be. But invariably true, "you are what you eat," -- and sometimes, when I see my wife scrolling through her TiVo listings, I feel like I'm watching a stoned vegan peruse the Dairy Queen menu. Yes, I want her to enjoy her ice-cream. But I also know there is going to be a stomach-ache the next day.
What I'm trying to convey, is that as long as we think it's prudent to protect our kids from mature content, perhaps we should protect our adults from immature content. If we're going to blame "Rambo" for inspiring adolescent boys to microwave hamsters, shouldn't we blame the "Real Housewives," when our mates go defrost mode on logic and reason?
In the battle of the sexes, how many times have we uttered the refrain, "we're just not on the same channel?" No shit. Turn that filth off, give me a kiss, and pretend I'm Brody Jenner -- you've already received the final rose.
Sure, I still get Mad Men, some Sportscenter and a good visit with Charlie Rose once in a while. But most evenings now, while pretending to read a presidential biography, I catch myself peeking from behind the pages, watching some mediocre blond "Bachelerotte," giggle her way through a dick fantasy. Or maybe it's a C-list celebrity cha-cha followed by conflict resolution with the Kardashians. Whatever the program, the rotting sensation in my brain is prevailed only by confusion -- why does my otherwise sophisticated, intellectually curious wife elect to bask in the glow of such nonsense?
It's her "guilty pleasure," right? Yeah, I get it -- it's the mindlessness we all need at the end of a long day. And if I felt that her TV indulgence was harmlessly contained within the confines of the flat-screen, then let it be. But invariably true, "you are what you eat," -- and sometimes, when I see my wife scrolling through her TiVo listings, I feel like I'm watching a stoned vegan peruse the Dairy Queen menu. Yes, I want her to enjoy her ice-cream. But I also know there is going to be a stomach-ache the next day.
What I'm trying to convey, is that as long as we think it's prudent to protect our kids from mature content, perhaps we should protect our adults from immature content. If we're going to blame "Rambo" for inspiring adolescent boys to microwave hamsters, shouldn't we blame the "Real Housewives," when our mates go defrost mode on logic and reason?
In the battle of the sexes, how many times have we uttered the refrain, "we're just not on the same channel?" No shit. Turn that filth off, give me a kiss, and pretend I'm Brody Jenner -- you've already received the final rose.
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