my grandfather loves the bachelorette

I say it often because it’s true: I’m immensely blessed by my loud, crazy, fun, faithful, loyal family. Most twenty-somethings do not have three of their four grandparents still living, as well as bonus great-grandparents still loving life and pretty healthy on a regular basis. But I do, and I know it’s not something I should take for granted.

Grandfathers should not like the Bachelorette. I mean, most grandfathers would make fun of you for watching it, instead of request that you call and remind him when the final episode is airing. But my grandfather is not like your average grandfather. For starters, he should not be alive. Five heart attacks since his mid-thirties, numerous by-pass surgeries, at least two major strokes: his medical miracles are a story for another day though, dear readers. Today we’re here to talk about trashy reality television.

I’m embarrassed to say I’ve watched almost every moment of this season’s Bachelorette. I’m unsure how it got started, as I was not attached to Ashley and did not watch last season. However, I’ve found myself tuning in each week, catching up online or via DVR when I’ve been out of town. My birthday weekend at the lake was the “take home” episode where the four remaining men take the Bachelorette home to meet their parents. My grandfather sat at the lake and watched all two hours with me, commenting on what a catch each of the dudes are and why.

“Well, sweet pea, if she doesn’t pick that Ames fella she doesn’t deserve any of ‘em.”
“Well, look at that Greek guy! He’s a looker! She can’t go wrong there!”
And my personal my favorite. “Hell, sweet pea, does this girl have a “connection” with EVERY guy?”

I told him I thought ABC should consult him so that they could reach an entirely new demographic with his input/commentary. He made me promise to remind him when the final week aired and possibly watch with him.

So, last Monday, we ate dinner with my grandmother, who could careless about the show but laughed at us yelling at the television, and my grandfather and I anxiously awaited the proposal. At one point he tapped my hand. “Shh, now let me hear this!” It was just as if I was watching the show with my high school girls from the younglife trip earlier this summer. But I wasn’t. I was watching with my seventy-two year old grandfather. Priceless.

He really liked Ben, the winemaker. And I told him, that’s who I would pick, because he’s hilarious, but this girl is in love with J.P., who is also great. I called it weeks ago.

As the first airplane approached the beach where ABC had set up the Bachelorette for the best camera shots possible, he looked at me. “Alright, sweet pea,” my grandfather said. “I hope this girl tells her tattooed crazy sister to stick it, and picks that bald P.J. fella. Whew, this should be good.”

Like I said, I say it often because it’s true: I’m blessed. You find me another girl whose seventy two year old grandfather will watch three hours of the Bachelorette with you while your grandmother cooks fish and pours the wine. I win.