so i'm watching the bachelor last night, and it's at the stage where eight girls catfighting over the nondescript title fellow are about to become four girls smooching said fellow and four girls crying and going home. one of the second group is rhonda, a twenty-eight-year-old real estate broker. watching her as the finalists get roses is absolutely horrible - she transitions from annette bening's american beauty "i will sell a house today" face to bashful-hopeful "he will see my special something at the last minute" poses to utter blankness, then she clutches her head and runs outside. it becomes clear that rhonda, a plucky and carefully groomed type who doesn't really draw the eye from the cheerleaders and actresses cavorting inside, was chosen for the show because she's prone to anxiety attacks. she proceeds to have one: the camera follows her mumbled repetitions and hyperventilation and the initial wooziness, then an ambulance arrives and the program ends.
the folks in television keep themselves in porsches by catering to women who need fairy tales - i know this, you know this, i think rhonda knew this. she also seemed to believe that her appearance on tv guaranteed her a hollywood ending - i'm aware that i'm giving this more weight than it deserves, but i ached for this poor bachelor woman. i hope the whole business was scripted.
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