I would devour a toddler if it would mean Bob would be my boyfriend.
The Biggest Loser concluded last night. Obviously, don’t read any further if you don’t want to be spoiled.
Again, I can’t really justify my watching of this show. I carry around a lot of shame on a daily basis, but even I have a problem sitting down and watching it while maintaining some semblance of self-respect. What can I say? There’s something weirdly satisfying about the concept of competitive weight loss. You catch yourself saying things to yourself like “well, he pulled in a big number last week — let’s see if he can do it again or if his body needed to rest.”
For what it’s worth though, I managed to watch the two-hour finale in about twenty to twenty-five minutes.
It was a pretty good season, however. I grew attached to the mother/son duo of Jackie and Dan (and whatever inference you might make of me empathizing with a sarcastic mama’s boy would be… uh… entirely accurate) although they were eliminated in advance of the finale.
The final twist of the series was that viewers had to decide which of the final “bottom two” contestants would be eliminated. I was hoping it would be drawling, faded football star Roger, but viewers instead chose to give Mark (the emotionally frayed Bostonite) the boot. The reason I wanted Roger to go was because he (I thought) had the better chance of winning and, in my fit of I-am-woman-hear-me-roar-ness, I bought into the hype of getting the first female Biggest Loser.
So, in the end, it was Roger versus Kelly verus Ali. Ali had lost enough weight that losing any more would be scary and unhealthy (which is, frankly, my own fitness goal).
And… in the end she won! Yay! Two steps forward for feminism and all lady-kind. Almost as good as having a female president (and, at this point, much more plausible).