“My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.” – Vida Winter
I watch all the Real Housewives shows on the Bravo TV network. Real Housewives of Orange County. Real Housewives of Atlanta. Beverly Hills. New Jersey. Miami.
I used to watch CNN and the MacNeil/Lehrer report. And then I had a baby.
Almost instantly, I abhorred the news. I wanted reality, that wasn’t real.
I needed to believe I didn’t just bring a child into a world of sickness. sadness. darkness. burning. hanging. bombing.
Oh shit, did I make a mistake?
Watching the news felt like walking into a spiderweb at night. Get it off me.
So I watch 60 minutes of nothingness instead. Of $25,000 birthday parties for 3-year-olds, and talking cupcakes, and teacup Yorkies. Where the biggest fear is, will the breast augmentation go as planned? Will her husband leave her for that skanky office girl? Will she overcome her issue with Paula in time for Mindy’s dress fitting?
It’s not because I am a dumb blonde.
But because right now, I can’t bring myself to walk into the spider web at night.