Selling Sunset is one of the worst TV shows I’ve ever seen, and I’m completely obsessed with it.
And no one can blame me: executive produced by Adam DeVillo (of The Hills), the eight-part reality series centers around the realtors of LA’s The Oppenheim Group and the drama that tends to accompany the joy of selling multi-million dollar homes amidst a small crew of big personalities. Everyone is glamourous, no one is particularly interesting, and the tension that erupts seems like it’d be completely avoidable anywhere else.
This week, I watched it at my parents’ house, and after one episode, I heard my mom shout from another room, “What are you watching? They sound ridiculous.” And she wasn’t wrong. Now halfway through the first season, I still can’t remember most names or plot devices. I’m absolutely not cheering for a single character, and where Laguna Beach and The Hills felt like a type of lifestyle I could (and did) aspire to, Selling Sunset seems like a nightmare. Nobody seems to genuinely like each other. Nobody communicates like actual people. Every potential romantic partner has been plucked from my nightmares and serves as a testament to why I refuse to date in a dinner/drinks sense of the word. While watching, I am comforted by the fact that one of my biggest highlights this week was eating a Cadbury Crème Egg. But reader, I cannot stop.
And I will not, if I’m being honest. The appeal of over-the-top reality television isn’t something that needs me to justify it, and I’m hardly the first to invest my time, energy, heart, and soul into a series that’s equal parts completely bananas and the most compelling show in the history of the world. But Selling Sunset stands out. Where Real Housewives and Vanderpump Rules house an extraordinary array of personalities and one-liners, Selling Sunset is exactly as compelling as any Hills moment where nobody talks and nothing happens. But that’s why I like and need it. I’m tired. I’ve lost patience with 99% of most things. I don’t have the bandwidth to take on another vehicle overflowing with plot points or people I have to fundamentally care about. I want the TV equivalent of fast food fries. I want something I know isn’t going to offend my senses and will deliver exactly what’s promised.
Plus, I want to look at fancy houses I will never, ever be able to afford. (And if I could, would still not buy because I am a paranoid person and would assume a house that’s too nice means the Bling Ring would break in and steal my belongings in a matter of days). I want to watch people I have nothing in common with, and who I’m sure would not want to speak to me if our paths were to cross. I want to see what it’s like to know what escrow means and to care about it. I want to imagine a world in which wearing heels and nice dresses isn’t reserved solely for weddings or bachelorette parties you can’t believe you got roped into, how did this happen, death please arrive swiftly. I want to feel great about my choices to hang out at home and not know which restaurants are cool. I want sleek production value and montages of posh areas of Los Angeles. I want whatever the opposite of reality is. Which is something I’d said to my Mom instead of getting irrationally angry at her for eavesdropping on my Netflix habits. You know, like a start of Selling Sunset would.
