It's not hard to see why our hopelessly neurotic heroines dream of sitting in the sun like a ficus all day long: They long for a final escape from their own self-defeating, circular thoughts. Driven by ego and self-doubt, they share an unquenchable desire to be "chosen," once and for all. They imagine a glassy post-wedding reality in which all naysaying voices and stabs of rejection or defeat are erased from the picture, replaced by glazed-over, hazy warmth from the unconditional love of Mr. Nice & Safe.

The challenge comes in trying to locate something real beneath the hollow, faceless fantasy of the ring, the fantasy of being chosen by somebody, anybody. As the back cover of "Animal Husbandry" puts it: "Commitment: Every woman wants it. Men can't even spell it." But what does it mean to want "a commitment" in the general sense, without having any idea of the person you might be committing to? And shouldn't the things that you want from someone depend, at least in part, on what that particular person has to offer? If you fall in love with an unemployed house painter who makes you laugh, wouldn't you adjust your expectations slightly and take him for what he has to offer while providing for yourself in the areas that he might not provide? In the language of wedding porn, there's an unspoken expectation that a man will squeeze comfortably into a preset role: handsome, sweet, neutered wage earner. He works hard so you don't have to.

The pretty contestants on "The Bachelor" reflect their desire for a faceless hero repeatedly. One particularly deluded contestant, Rhonda, performs a face-plant on a bed, lamenting the fact that she and Alex are perfect for each other. Sure, she met him two days ago, but she can just tell! "I wish we had met in different circumstances!" she cries, sounding about as realistic as a drunk at a topless bar who's convinced that each dancer on stage is hot for him. Rhonda's post-dismissal interview is cut short by a panic attack, but in the other interviews, each woman tearily repeats the unending search for that special anyone, reassuring herself out loud that "maybe the timing is wrong, but someday I'll find the right man," someone who'll "love me for me."

Not surprisingly, despite the fact that the show focuses on a running competition among the women, Alex seems to struggle the most with whether or not the women actually like him. He can't tell, because they uniformly want him to pick them -- instant, public validation, the engagement fantasy of being "chosen" writ large. These women want to win -- not just the ring and the Harvard guy, but the promise of being publicly redeemed from every rejection they've ever experienced on the road to this moment. While Alex's interest in them comes across as quite sincere -- he's already The bachelor, after all; now he just wants a relationship that's good enough that he won't feel like a jerk for being on the show -- their interest in him is debatable at best, downright dehumanizing at worst.

And when Alex drops character and expresses a quite reasonable hope that he and his future wife will have good chemistry (see also: hot, raunchy sex), he is openly chastised and reminded of the difficult situation he (not the producers, but Alex himself) has put these poor girls in. The one exception to this rule is Amanda, who mentions that she loves dressing up and has a Wonder Woman costume, to which Alex, attempting to mask his enthusiasm, replies, "That's good news."

That good news seems to make her far less appealing than the competition, however, who require much more work from Alex, parading their high-maintenance needs and dysfunctional tics as if a real prince will naturally recognize them as assets. But even as many contestants reveal those flaws that complete the picture of them as princesses -- "See how bruised this pea made my ass?" -- they refuse to disclose aspects of their personalities that could actually give Alex some indication of the mundane qualities and flaws that reflect who they are as human beings. As the dates become more intense and the number of contestants is cut to four, it's clear that Alex is the real victim of this insane setup, partially because he seems to have an even stronger desire to be America's sweetheart than they do. Even when he performs a clumsy, cursory cost-benefit analysis, instead of shaming or objectifying the women involved, it seems to reflect his respect and sincere concern for them (an impressive feat, given the circumstances). But more than anything, Alex's assessments hint at his own dysfunction and prejudices. Overall, he seems to vastly prefer women who refuse to fool around with him, who can't look him in the eye and/or who criticize him outright.

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