My wife is obsessed with ABC’s hit reality show The Bachelor, a program that features a hunky dude and his quest for love amongst a pre selected harem of buxom (and bat-shit crazy) women. Sarah has watched every season and she is currently in hysterics over how awesome the new season (entitled “On the Wings of Love”) is unfolding. As a dutiful husband, I’ve watched the show with her (and loved it). For the last three weeks, I’ve been secretly taking notes from The Bachelor and have applied several valuable Bachelorized lessons to our marriage. 

First, I took off my shirt. A lot. The Bachelor spends so much time with his shirt off it appears that he treats every situation in life as if it is a game that requires teams to square off into Shirts versus Skins. And a real man – a Bachelor man – always goes skins. But there is a slight problem: I’m rather unsightly with my shirt off. I’m thick and stocky and built for moving heavy and cumbersome objects like refrigerators. But if The Bachelor has taught me anything it is that life is better sans shirt. So I forged ahead and started taking off my shirt in every occasion. I Swiftered our house bare chested. When my son asked me if I wanted to play “Mario Kart” on our Wii, I said yes and then flung my shirt off. I came home from Lunds and asked myself a simple question: How would the Bachelor put away groceries? I ditched the shirt and gave Sarah a muscle flexin’gun show as I stocked the cupboards.

Then I decorated my entire house with 300 lit candles. The Bachelor production team loves candle so much that they create a near séance in every scene. One night after a long day at work, I decided to take a bath. Taking a cue from the show - In The Bachelor world, there is at least one hot tub scene in every episode and a pool of hot bubbling water is the universal sign for “Doing It” - I proceeded to Bachelorize the crap out of our bathroom by lining the tub with tiny votives. When Sarah walked in and saw me in our bath tub surrounded by candles she simply said, “Fuck off.”

At the end of every episode of The Bachelor, there is a rose ceremony where the Bachelor hands out roses to the women he wants to get to know better (read: bang in a hot air balloon). “Will you accept this rose?” The Bachelor asks the prospective woman. I took every opportunity to ask my wife this very same question.

“Sarah, will accept this rose…if I do the laundry? Will you accept this rose…if I get you a bowl of cereal?”

Most importantly, though, The Bachelor show is all about elaborate fantasy dates. The Bachelor usually whisks a woman off in a helicopter and takes her to Sea World to swim with dolphins. Then the date ends with a nauseatingly perfect picnic overlooking the ocean. Since I don’t have a helicopter at my disposal, I had to take my wife out on a date in our Subaru. Right before Sarah got into the car, I performed the most romantic gesture ever known to man: I removed my smelly hockey bag out of the backseat and instantly eliminated the smell of ass-funk from our car. Now that’s love. 

In the end, I may not be a pilot with six pack abs like the current Bachelor. But that didn’t stop me from having a great date with my wife. As it turned out, being the Bachelor kind of sucked. I like being the Bachelor’s complete opposite: a happily married man. But just for good measure, at the end of the night I took my shirt off while we ate ice cream in front of the TV.

This story is dedicated to Gaga Feinberg, my lovely Mother-in-Law and The Bachelor’s biggest fan. Get well soon.  We love you.