The Dance
It’s that time of year again. The TiVo box is all aquiver with anticipation as I park myself in front of the TV with a glass of wine, ready to cheer on my favorites. That’s right! The new season of So You Think You Can Dance has begun and I can barely contain my excitement!
I should say that I’ve never been that into reality shows. Oh, I did watch one of the Survivor’s, the one in Australia I think. There was that brief interest in Big Brother that faded quickly. I’ve never watched a single episode of American Idol or Real Life or The Apprentice or god forbid, Fear Factor. But there’s just something about SYTYCD that pulls me in. Oh, I know I’m totally being manipulated with skillful editing and background music. I’m sure they could take footage of my grandmother and make her look like a raving bitch. And of course they decide the order in advance that they’re going to tell dancers if they made it or not, so it’s down to 2 guys that everybody likes and one of them has to go home and it’s so suspenseful and sad and exciting. I know all that and yet I don’t care. I’ve got to have that sweet sweet emotional rollercoaster every week, that thrilling euphoria when my favorite survives another week and the crushing disappointment when one of the really good ones is sent home in tears. Dare I admit it, yes, I even call in votes for my favorites on this show. Repeatedly. Sometimes I vote online too. At work. I am addicted.
As soon as Slag saw the ads last month for the new upcoming season he announced, in a very determined voice, that I was not going to get him “sucked in” to that show again this summer. He would not be scheduling his Wednesday nights around that show. He would not get pissed off when Nigel was mean and made one of the girls cry. He would not rant about the injustice of one of the better dancers being kicked off the show as if he were complaining about a bad call in a football game. He would not tell me who I should vote for. He would not “woohoo” and high five me when the best one was picked as the winner. No he would not.
I didn’t argue with him, but deep down inside I just chuckled knowingly to myself. Because I knew the power of the dance. He thought he could escape its insidious grasp, its captivating powers, its siren song of scantily–clad, astonishly flexible bodies. Silly man. So I just minded my own business, TiVo’ing the episodes for myself, planning to watch them by myself. I didn’t mention it to him again. But as soon as the first few notes of the theme music reverberated out of the TV he couldn’t help himself. He stood behind the sofa for a couple of minutes, trying to resist the show’s allure and make himself go upstairs and do something else. But pretty soon, just as I expected, he was right there next to me, getting comfortable and demanding the remote. And then we watched the season opener together. And it was good.
Naturally I had to rub it in afterwards, just a little. I did a tasteful and understated victory dance as the first episode credits ran and taunted him. “Ha! You thought you weren’t going to watch, but you are, you aaaare, you aaaare. You couldn’t escape!” Which he tolerated for a short time before subduing me in some sort of wrestling hold and demanding that I shut the hell up. Sorry baby! Too bad there’s no wrestling hold that restrains the mouth!
Now it’s two weeks into the season and we’re both completely enthralled and eagerly awaiting the next episode. It’s going to be a fabulous. I can tell already.
I should say that I’ve never been that into reality shows. Oh, I did watch one of the Survivor’s, the one in Australia I think. There was that brief interest in Big Brother that faded quickly. I’ve never watched a single episode of American Idol or Real Life or The Apprentice or god forbid, Fear Factor. But there’s just something about SYTYCD that pulls me in. Oh, I know I’m totally being manipulated with skillful editing and background music. I’m sure they could take footage of my grandmother and make her look like a raving bitch. And of course they decide the order in advance that they’re going to tell dancers if they made it or not, so it’s down to 2 guys that everybody likes and one of them has to go home and it’s so suspenseful and sad and exciting. I know all that and yet I don’t care. I’ve got to have that sweet sweet emotional rollercoaster every week, that thrilling euphoria when my favorite survives another week and the crushing disappointment when one of the really good ones is sent home in tears. Dare I admit it, yes, I even call in votes for my favorites on this show. Repeatedly. Sometimes I vote online too. At work. I am addicted.
As soon as Slag saw the ads last month for the new upcoming season he announced, in a very determined voice, that I was not going to get him “sucked in” to that show again this summer. He would not be scheduling his Wednesday nights around that show. He would not get pissed off when Nigel was mean and made one of the girls cry. He would not rant about the injustice of one of the better dancers being kicked off the show as if he were complaining about a bad call in a football game. He would not tell me who I should vote for. He would not “woohoo” and high five me when the best one was picked as the winner. No he would not.
I didn’t argue with him, but deep down inside I just chuckled knowingly to myself. Because I knew the power of the dance. He thought he could escape its insidious grasp, its captivating powers, its siren song of scantily–clad, astonishly flexible bodies. Silly man. So I just minded my own business, TiVo’ing the episodes for myself, planning to watch them by myself. I didn’t mention it to him again. But as soon as the first few notes of the theme music reverberated out of the TV he couldn’t help himself. He stood behind the sofa for a couple of minutes, trying to resist the show’s allure and make himself go upstairs and do something else. But pretty soon, just as I expected, he was right there next to me, getting comfortable and demanding the remote. And then we watched the season opener together. And it was good.
Naturally I had to rub it in afterwards, just a little. I did a tasteful and understated victory dance as the first episode credits ran and taunted him. “Ha! You thought you weren’t going to watch, but you are, you aaaare, you aaaare. You couldn’t escape!” Which he tolerated for a short time before subduing me in some sort of wrestling hold and demanding that I shut the hell up. Sorry baby! Too bad there’s no wrestling hold that restrains the mouth!
Now it’s two weeks into the season and we’re both completely enthralled and eagerly awaiting the next episode. It’s going to be a fabulous. I can tell already.
posted by Jill at 11:47 AM
6 Comments:
And I thought I was evil, hell I have Evil as a first name, but this takes the cake.
Someone needs to call Amnesty International on you for brainwashing your hubby.
I've known a lot of reality show viewers...but never a reality show voter! You've stepped up! Taken it to the next level. INTERACTED with reality!!! I'm in awe.
I am missing all the good things in life by not having a TV that can do something besides play movies. My mom keeps rubbing in my face the fact that it's the last episode of the Sopranos tomorrow night and I haven't watched a single episode so I'm missing all the fun.
When I'm at my parents' or in-laws' place, it's those home decorating shows that I get sucked into, and, yah, I get that guy I live with sucked into them too; while he protests a lot in the beginning, by the end of the hour he's always like, "God, how could they pick that colour?..." and, my personal favourite, after watching an episode of Clean Sweep, "Wow, clearing out that office really made it look a lot better, huh?"
That isn't the one with The Hoff, is it? That man is a king among men. Well...just the hairy chested ones.
You are indeed evil. You are the mother of evil...
Who knew?
evil spock, Thank you!Mwahahahahah! I am truly EVIL. Evil Spock says so!
em, I KNOW. If it weren't for people like me, there wouldn't be any reality TV. They'd have to choose the American Idol winner by, say, picking the best singer. And that won't do at all.
whippersnapper, Oh, I forgot about the home improvement reality shows. How could I overlook Trading Spaces, for crying out loud? You know, that might be the only way to get Mr. IQ's office cleaned out, throw him to the Clean Sweep people!
kara, Gawd no, the judges on SYTYCD are all genuinely talented choreographers. This is serious dancing. There are no celebrity judges. Bite your tongue.
jazz, I AM. Evil Spock said so, so it must be true.
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