If there were six of them, we could be a complete Ultimate line.

Yesterday at lunch we got to talking about cousins who have been on reality shows. A cousin of someone I knew had been on The Bachelor. We watched her every week, hoping for the best. It is amazing how fast your standards change when you know a competitor on The Bachelor. Normally I would like her to show her intelligence and competence, conduct herself with her usual stylish grace. On The Bachelor, I just prayed that she wouldn’t make out with him in the hot tub. Another of our cousins easily outdid The Bachelor by appearing on Ricki Lake, Who’s the Daddy?. She was uncertain of the father of her son and thought a free paternity test on daytime TV would be a gentle way to settle matters with her husband and paramour. I thought I caught some disapproval about her dilemma from my lunch companions, but I was mostly just impressed. Not knowing the father of your child implies that you are getting some, which, as you know, is a longstanding goal of mine.

I got to thinking about what it would be like if I were on a reality show. In fact, what if I were the center of a season of The Bachelorette? The thought of a house full of men competing for my affection sounds mortifying, but it would never happen like that. If the producers selected men for the show based on my preferences, they would end up with a house full of really smart, good-natured men who like to do things. Since they wouldn’t be stupidly macho and competitive, they would naturally start finding ways to pass the time. On the second “date” I would show up, tossing my hair in slow motion, to find the guys on the roof. “Climb up! We’re throwing watermelons off! And old electronics! See if you can get the cameraperson to film it!” When it came time for the pool party, I might be able to get the guys to notice the cleave, but only if they weren’t catching frisbees as they jumped off the diving board. I know that I’m supposed to pick two guys to take in the hot air balloon over Napa, so that one can emote frustrated longing while I make eyes at the other, but really, I would rather go with the whole crew to Korean karaoke.

In real life, I would inevitably end up hanging out in the house as one of the guys until the show dispersed. I would keep in touch with them and attend all of their weddings, pleased by their delight in their lovely brides and wondering again why she wasn’t me. On TV, though, the Megan Season can have a happy ending. When it got down to the last five or six best kissers, they would come to me as a group. “Megan,” one would say, “we don’t want to compete against each other. Could you please choose early, put us out of our misery?” “But honey,” I would answer, “I can’t! I just don’t know! Choose the man who cooks such good food? Or the one who sings in the car with me? Or the one who spots me when we lift weights? Choose between the mathematician and the physicist? No woman could do that! If only I could choose you all!” Then, gradually at first, a look of hope and agreement would dawn in our eyes.

Although the nation would be scandalized, the producers would let us keep the house with the pool in exchange for filming the wedding. My grooms would look so handsome in their tuxes. The country would have a chance to catch up on our love story a couple years later, when we all appear on Ricki Lake, Who’s the Daddy?.