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By Root 304 0

I really only needed to watch the very beginning of each show—when the previous week’s dramatic highlights were recapped—and the rose ceremonies. The giving of one red rose, in flower language, is supposed to mean “I love you,” and rose ceremonies have traditionally symbolized the exchanging of love between a bride and groom. On The Bachelor, the rose ceremony is where reality sets in: this is when the bachelor weeds out the Mrs. Wannabes. The women (or girls, as they are always called) get all dolled up, Miss America style, in their prettiest ball gowns and Barbie heels. The bachelor picks up one red rose at a time, calls out the lucky woman’s name, and asks her if she’ll keep it. By which he means, of course, will she stick around while he continues to date a bunch of other women? On the edge of our seats, we watch as hope fades in the eyes of each roseless woman throughout what is always described by host Chris Harrison as “the most dramatic rose ceremony ever.”

As I watched, I couldn’t believe that none of the women opted out of this humiliation-fest early on. Just once, I wanted to see a bachelor offer the rose, and the woman politely but firmly decline. I suddenly hated the idea that little girls who watch this show might believe that being picked or not picked by a man would be their only options in love.

Finally, in season five, two of the women raised their hands during the rose ceremony and asked to be eliminated. Bachelor Jesse looked pissed, but I was thrilled. Their explanation for wanting to leave was that there were other woman who were clearly in love with him and they deserved a chance. This sounded to me like the Miss Manners version of “Get me the fuck out of this house of crazy-ass bitches and away from this creepy guy.” And it gave me hope for womankind.

There is one thing to be said for the ceremony: When a bachelor “breaks up” with a woman, he has to do it to her face. There’s no hiding behind e-mail, cell phone, or the cone of silence. There’s no way to not text a rose. And, as if that’s not enough, the producers eventually bring the bachelor back to face all the rejected women in the Women Tell All special that inevitably follows.

After a while, I realized that every season was pretty much the same. The producers would change locations or add a twist every now and then to set the stage for additional drama, but mostly everyone drinks (including, I’m willing to bet, the crew); the women continue to humiliate themselves; and the bachelor makes out with each girl and grows increasingly uncomfortable as his contractual “commitment” closes in.

What always happens in the end is this: A bunch of women get rejected, no doubt entering treatment for PTRD (post-traumatic rose disorder); one woman wins “the prize” (except in season eleven, when Brad rejected both); and the happy couple breaks up shortly after the media hubbub dies down. (With the exception of season six’s Mary and Byron—although Mary was recently arrested for allegedly assaulting Byron in a drunken brawl, so tick-tock on that one.)

After watching five seasons in one week, I found myself on a first date saying things like, “Oh my gosh, you are sooo good-looking!” while clapping my hands and wiggling in my chair. I smiled much more than I normally would, batted my eye lashes throughout the evening, and conducted an interview with myself in the mirror after he left. (Question: “How did the date go, Wendy?” Answer: “I think we had a super special connection—he might be the one!”) This was not good.

By the time I’d finished the tenth season, I had to restrain myself from giving the guy a lap dance on the second date. I wasn’t even sure I liked him yet, but I felt a compulsion to seduce him to fend off my competition, real or imaginary. The Bachelor, apparently, wasn’t designed to be consumed in mass quantities. It should come with a black box warning—“DANGER: Watching more than ten episodes in a twenty-four-hour period may cause severe side effects including memory loss, drowsiness, compulsive shopping for bridal lingerie, and an uncontrollable