I don’t watch reality television. It saddens me a bit, but I’ll never be able to answer a Trivial Pursuit question about “Survivor,” “Fear Factor,” “The Bachelor,” “Joe Millionaire,” or “My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé.” The problem is, something about these shows makes me uncomfortable.

Perhaps they’re too real — maybe people really do need to traumatize their relatives for money, or maybe having a bunch of television producers line up a selection of mates is just a modern improvement on the age-old business of matchmaking.
It’s possible.
It’s also possible that they’re not real enough. The hoops these people are asked to jump through are often silly, frequently humiliating and — from what I’ve seen during bouts of channel surfing — incredibly pointless.
Mind you, I myself engage in pointless activities.
From time to time, I find that sleep and I are to be only distantly acquainted. Midnight, 1 a.m. and 2 a.m. pass without much concern, but when 3 a.m. comes (and goes) without a significant increase in the weight of my eyelids, I usually decide that action is required. Like any normal person still in the throes of New Year’s Resolution #14 (get more exercise), I decide that the solution to my wakefulness lies at the gym.
I usually spend an hour or two hoping that the threat of going out into the pre-dawn cold will persuade my circadian rhythms to beat out a sleepy tune. Sometimes it works. When it doesn’t, I drag out my tennis shoes, gather up my car keys and venture out into the company of 5 a.m. freaks.
Yes, you heard me — freaks. How else would you characterize people who — in the middle of winter — decide to leave the cozy comfort of their sleep-warmed beds in order to exercise?
Once among the freaks, I scope out a treadmill, hit the start button, and start to go — nowhere. Can’t you just smell the irony? The woman who protests pointless television pointlessly expends energy going nowhere, and not even particularly fast.
But it’s not an entirely pointless endeavor. From where I patiently tick off the laps, I can watch the goings-on of my companions-in-toil. Reality television has nothing on these folks.
On my most recent trip, I first watched Biker Man — a fifty-something fellow, with a flame tattoo up his calf and graying hair bound in Willie Nelson braids — determinedly climb up his StairMaster. I’d have found him only mildly interesting but for the Grandma Woman who took up the machine beside him. She was a 70-something little old lady with a butt flatter than a legal writing pad. Nevertheless, there she was, climbing her stairway to heaven. The contrast between them was marked, but I was far more interested in what they had in common. Each wore an identical expression of disgust, discomfort and determination. The external packaging may have been different, but underneath, I was seeing kindred spirits.
While this unlikely pair was good for a few laps, my attention was soon caught by another gym personage — Perfect Man. Somehow, this fellow managed to look natty in a tracksuit — perhaps it was the way his collar turned up, the pristine whiteness of his socks or maybe just the identical length of all his shoelaces.
He masterfully mounted one of those new machines that simulate uphill cross-country skiing. He put it on the steepest setting and then proceeded to slide away at the same brisk pace for most of an hour. If he sweated, I didn’t see it. If his breath became labored, I didn’t notice. Mostly, I puttered along completing my laps knowing that I was in the presence of a god. I was suitably humbled.
I might have stayed that way had it not been for the arrival of Beauty Queen Woman. At just after 5 a.m. this only-recently-old-enough-to-drink female entered the gym. I noticed her immediately — as did most of the male population. She was tall, tan and blonde — which is probably why the men were looking. I, however, was caught up in the utter fascination of a scientist who has just discovered a new species.
She wasn’t wearing workout clothes, she was wearing an ensemble. Her hair wasn’t ponytailed, it was coifed. More amazingly — and I swear it’s true — her face was decked out in full maquillage. This girl didn’t just get out of bed at an incredibly early hour to exercise, she got up even earlier to primp first. She wasn’t just your average freak — she was a Rick James Super Freak.
Compare that to eating rats, drinking blood or dating strangers on national television. Perhaps I don’t watch reality television because reality is far more interesting.