Why the Real House Wives of Beverly Hills Are Good For Your Butt

The Herve Leger Red Bandage Dress
Which Will Be Mine By My Birthday

I'm coming clean. This is my love letter to The Real Housewives of Where-the-Hell-Ever. I'm so grateful for them and the entire host of women on the Bravo network that are plumped up, sucked out, tucked in, tightened and 75% composed out of a surgeon injectable super-space-age polymer.

A year ago I would have preferred listening to Yoko Ono's rendition of Gangnam Style than watch this crap. [Note, I have seen her "performance art exhibit" in the linked video above. It's at the Modern Museum of Art in New York. At the last second I elected to not jump off the third floor balcony thanks to Yoko, or as I call it, pulling a McCartney.]

My disturbing fascination with all things plastic started around November. My friend Lauren loves The RH and she elected to skip a football party with single men to watch The Real Housewives of Atlanta. That concept blew my mind but I make it a rule to not mock something unless I've tried it myself. I've done it with a variety of things yielding mixed results; Justin Bieber, Taylor Swift, James Patterson novels, Days of Our Lives, jam band shows, and government cheese. I DVR'd a couple of RH of Beverly Hills episodes and figured they were perfect to kill some time on my treadmill. 

After the first two episodes I was sold. There is nothing better to motivate you to continue to work your butt off on the treadmill than watching women who clearly have had butt lifts and butt implants. I don't respond well to positive reinforcment in fitness. Having some chick on the screen saying "You are doing great!" when I know she can't see me does nothing. However seeing some total nutjob that is all long flowing hair and screaming poured into a Herve Leger bandage dress does. 

I found myself cuing up RH Beverly Hills and then Miami. With replays and reruns that took up a few nights per week. Then Vanderpump Rules thankfully came along to fit the coveted "Crap I Wish I Was At Happy Hour Instead" spot. Lastly The Millionaire Matchmaker finished out my workout week by providing an angry single Jewish woman to berate chicks to either get hot or they will never find love with men who have jobs. Put it all together and there was no WAY I was getting off that treadmill or stop lifting before the Hour of Disempowerment was up.

Women are competitive creatures. It's the biological imperative. Do I find it supremely irritating that these women live lavish lifestyles with fabulously wealthy husbands, wear killer clothes and only have two brain cells fighting each other out for space? Yes. Do I want their wardrobes and their abs? Yes. Heck, I can confidently say I'd take their wardrobes and abs, cut out the drama completely since I'm pretty level headed, be successful in my own right and continue to live a very happy life.  It wouldn't make for good TV but it's good for my cholesterol. 

So keep on looking fabulous you crazy cotton candy headed pleasure palaces in Christian Louboutins. You were clearly built for the entertainment of others and I, for one, applaud you with 12 reps at a 10 lb weight.