Bachelor Night in America

In January and February, which are objectively the Worst Months of All Time, the universe grants us a single gift. This gift is the ability to watch a blandly handsome (blandsome) man develop an ulcer on a hot air balloon once a week. We call this experience “The Bachelor,” and it is the only thing that keeps us going. 

I’ve been at Yale for almost three entire years now. This university has taught me a lot, including that shows like “The Bachelor” are very bad, because they perpetuate the kinds of degrading patriarchal systems that have kept women down for centuries. BUT another thing I have learned at Yale is that sometimes you need to chill the heck out and do what makes you laugh.

The bluriness of this picture indicates how excited we were for “The Bachelor.”

My friend group is one of several I know of on campus that meets weekly to watch the show. We watch on Tuesdays, a night after the rest of America, to accomodate for everyone’s extracurricular, academic, and athletic schedules. I treat our Bachelor nights as I would any other commitment: I am blocked off for that time, and cannot be reached. I will cancel for nothing, save some life-altering event or Act of God. Sometimes we have snacks and sometimes we have wine, but usually it’s just hanging out and yelling at the television. 

What is special about Bachelor nights has very little to do with the actual show. It’s the act of carving out time to be with friends, dedicating at least and hour and a half a week to doing something stupid and purposeless surrounded by people you’ve come to love. The fact that I know so many Yalies who engage in the same practice gives me a lot of joy. We’ll get through the winter together, one rose ceremony at a time. 

Sometimes the drama is a little TOO shocking.