daily prompt 4 Mar 2011

  Me? On 'The Bachelor?'  What had I been thinking?  This wasn't exactly the average date with, at most, a digital camera present.  No, here I was with umpteen other 'girls' (which still grates when I hear it), one reasonably hunky guy, and more cameras and crew than all of us put together. 

  And here we were, by the pool, pretending it was the beach at high tide.  I still hadn't figured that one out.  There was a full moon, which helped, and a few tons of sand, which didn't, and everyone dressed to kill. Because it's a requirement for this 'reality tv' stuff.  I was wondering if I could just sneak out and go home.  In the middle of the second week, though, my overly-developed sense of responsibility gnawed at me every time I started to think I had the nerve to actually get up and do it. 

    So I sat on my beach towel, trying to drape myself gracefully and realizing that with cameras all around at five different angles, chances were that at least three wouldn't be flattering.  And the day-glo orange bikini I was wearing... 'vanity, thy name is Brenda,' I muttered to myself. 

  Did I even like this guy?  Reynaldo (oh, well, at least it wasn't Fabio) was likable enough, if you didn't mind the fact that his conversation ran to working-out and hair styling products.  Unfortunately, my taste really wasn't along those lines.  How had I let Marcie talk me into this? 

  Oh God, now they were bringing-in a fog machine .... I toyed with a sand dollar, not caring too much whether the look of disgust that must be on my face made it past editing.  They'd probably love it, I figured.  The more drama, the better, seemed to be the producers' primary theory of creating this show. 

  Suddenly, my hair (everyone's hair), sand, everything, it seemed, was blowing all over, and the pool was developing waves.  I looked around.  Wind machine, right across the pool from me. 

  Duh.

  And "what next?" 

  I devoutly wished that it was Marcie beside that pool, on the fake beach, instead of me. 

  Now, Marcie had been my best friend since third grade, and I loved her to bits, but when it came to good judgment she was inconsistent at best.  Witness my present situation.  Somehow, sitting in her apartment in the middle of the not-long-past Minneapolis winter, this scheme had seemed to make sense.  I was the one sitting here, so I guessed I didn't have much ability to question her judgment.  But still. 

  "Brenda," she'd said to me, holding her mug of tea and pulling-up the throw she'd grabbed when we came inside.

  "Mmmm?"  I was about half-asleep.

  "You know what?  You oughta go on 'The Bachelor.'

  I was wide-awake.  "Are you kidding me?  Me?  I can't think of anyone less, um, suited to it."

  "No, seriously.  I mean, think about it.  You're a really good chef, right?  And you can't find a job with the economy?"  That last part wasn't a question; she knew I couldn't.  I'd just graduated from the culinary academy and was going to have to start paying-off my loans.

  I decided that I'd better stop this nonsense right away.

  "C'mon," I said, "that's nonsense.  You know me.  I get shy with guys as it is."

  "And you hate cameras.  I know.  You should still do it."

  "No way, Marcie!  Now knock it off.  End of discussion."

  But at some point we'd switched to red wine, and sometime after that I found Marcie holding a camera, pointing it at me, and telling me to talk about myself.  I'm never drinking that much again, I swear.

  So here I was now, playing with a sand dollar and trying to act like I was having fun.  Meanwhile, half the 'girls' were in the pool with Reynaldo, laughing and tossing a beach ball and trying their best to act like mermaids.  Or maybe dolphins.  I wasn't really too sure; I'd had a few glasses of wine just to get through this evening.  Most of the other girls were clustered together by the campfire, laughing and undoubtedly insulting the women in the pool, me, and probably each other.

  I sighed, got up, and walked over to Bobby, the line producer on this shift.  I stopped before him.

  "I'm out of here," I said.  "I'm just not the type."

  "Brenda, Brenda, you're just a little down," he said in his most soothing voice (which had always annoyed the hell out of me.  "Here, let me get you a drink, we'll talk for a few minutes.  Don't leave.  He really likes you, I know he does." 

  Bobby was sounding kind of desperate.  But for once, I wasn't going to think of someone else first, and I wasn't going to have another drink and let myself get talked into it.

  "Sorry, Bobby."  And I was.  Sort of.  But I walked away anyway, ignoring everybody, even Reynaldo when they got him out of the pool to come after me. 

  It's not so bad, working in a diner.