Abandoning my sense of self in the name of reality TV

I promised myself that I would never, ever, under any circumstance, watch Dancing With the Stars. I resented everything about it--the fact that it was on two or three times a week, contributed absolutely nothing to any meaningful social discourse, was a flagrant display of mindless entertainment. I, a rhythmless individual, know nothing about dancing and wasn't looking to develop an appreciation. I thought it was stupid, and everyone who watched it needed to get a life.

But this season, in complete abandonment of my dignity, I have become engrossed. I mostly blame my mother, who is perhaps the show's most rabid fan. She watches every episode with a notebook in hand, in which she records all of the couple's scores, which dances they did, and her own observations about their performances. She flips back and forth maniacally, comparing numbers week to week and muttering in a fashion reminiscent of Rain Man.

At first I only watched because she likes the company and kept hounding me to give it a try. I hated how they stretched everything out over two-hour episodes two nights in a row, and the manufactured suspense that was required to do so. I thought the contestants were obnoxious and the judges amateur. Then, something in me changed. A switch went off, and there is nothing more I can say to explain it. Deep inside me, buried beneath years of fretting about weighty problems like health policy and and food crises, is a girl who loves the glitz, glam, and dazzling electricity of a well-performed Jitterbug. Now I look forward to Mondays and Tuesdays, even though every time I tune in I feel like maybe I'm losing a little piece of any intellectual prowess I once had.

I guess part of it is the fact that I am away from school this semester, living at home, and I have more time to watch TV. So I don't really have to be selective in what I watch. Part of it is that, even though I hate using this as an excuse, it is purely escapist entertainment.

Do you think less of me? I had to tell you someone that I watch this show. I had to get it off my chest. There is something so theraputic about watching 300-pound Warren Sapp do the rumba to Beyonce's "To the Left." It makes you forget, for those four minutes, about student loan payments, genocide, and Sarah Palin's woeful inadequacies. Staring in awe at co-host Samantha Harris's ridiculous toned arms makes me feel a) like a fatty b) motivated to refresh my physical fitness goals. I get a perverse joy out of hearing Julianne Hough discuss the details of her medical problems in great detail and wondering about why the doctors have made certain choices. Is this all so bad? Tell me it isn't. I have never seen an episode of The Hills, Flavor of Love, or even My Fair Brady. So can't this count as my first offense? Let's brush it under the rug, and until then, I promise not to write about Dancing With the Stars ever again. Unless I get some type of unexpected feedback that tells me you want weekly recaps. In which case, in the interest of service journalism, I could bring myself to do.