I resent the term guilty pleasure. My girlfriends in particular have a way of dismissing their cruder entertainment indulgences, sheepishly admitting that they whipped through the Fifty Shades books or have seen all of Katherine Heigl’s movies. My feeling is, Hey, whatever gets you through a plane ride. I don’t hear guys apologizing for obsessing over their fantasy-football lineups or for fussing online about whether Ben Affleck will make a proper Batman.
So I was surprised by the guilt I felt when my 5-year-old daughter caught me watching a rerun of The Real Housewives of Orange County. I’d long since put her to bed and was staring dumbly at a scene of a horrible blond woman in a one-shoulder sateen dress lashing out at another horrible blond woman in a similarly cut jewel-tone dress. “Is this a grown-up show?” my child whispered from the hallway. I fumbled for the pause button, freezing the ridiculous action just before the contents of a wineglass splattered on the rival’s sun-freckled silicone cleavage.
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