So here we are, the morning after the premiere of season four of The Bachelorette, and not much has changed.
We’re having the same discussions; there’s the clear winner (who will undoubtedly break our hearts and lose), the standard git (ahem, Paddy) and a whole bunch of gendered double-standards (but that’s another article).
And of course, there’s the lack of diversity amongst the contestants, which Channel 10 – yet again – has this year made completely clear that they are unmoved by, because this year’s Bachies are more pink than the coveted Wild Rose.
Yep, not one POEFC (Person of Even the Faintest Colour) in sight.
But this isn’t as problematic for me as one might expect. My reaction is more: so. Freaking. What.
It’s a television show – a marginally romantic version of Australian Ninja Warrior. Is it possible that we are expecting a little too much?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not immune to the show’s narrow perspective. I’m also obviously not the type of woman who would be chosen as a contestant, or even as the Bachelorette herself.
I’m 42 (aka too old to fill a seven seat SUV with baby capsules). Polite society (and the law in some instances) dictates that I need to wear a bra at all times. I have no exciting hobbies - I run a book club and love it. And…what’s the other thing?
Oh, that’s right. I’m also brown.
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If I were ever silly enough to get married again, I’d wear this skirt. A photo can’t do justice to it. Crushed cream silk ruffles - no ironing, SO comfortable. And simply bought at my local market from a @ladystartups called Polita that isn’t even on Insta. #mybosssaidilookedhottoday