Kaufman - Bachelor Nation

There was no final rose. I didnt get a chance to say my good-byes. No one even offered to walk me out.

Just like that, Id been kicked out of Bachelor Nation.

For years, Id been obsessed with the Bachelor franchise. Even though my beat at the Los Angeles Times is film, I enjoyed watching The Bach (like batch of cookies, not Johann Sebastian) so much that I willingly opted to spend my Monday nights writing recaps of each new episode.

Because of my coverage, ABC granted me access to a handful of Bachelor-related activities. I attended tapings of the Women Tell All specials, interviewing jilted ladies after theyd been left roseless. One season, the Bachelor himselfalong with host Chris Harrison and a slew of cameraseven crashed a viewing party at my house.

And then there were the weekly conference callsprobably the least illuminating of the Bachelor press opportunities. The calls worked like this: Dozens of journalists were given an access code, dialed into an ABC line, and then were allowed to publicly ask the contestant o the week a question or two. It wasnt soul-searching stuffit was Bachelor.net.rose.tv.com asking about onscreen smooching.

But suddenly, the e-mails with bland press releases inviting me to participate in the calls stopped showing up in my inbox. I promptly got in touch with an ABC publicist to see if the move had been accidental. Im sorry, the rep responded, were just so slammed this season that theres no more room on the call. Which, what? How do you run out of room on a conference call?

The situation seemed suspect to me, and my editor at the paper agreed. So he decided to call up ABCs publicity department to get the real story. And what he learned was that, apparently, producers had deemed my coverage too negative and no longer wanted me near any show-sponsored events.

I was shocked. Were my recaps snarky? That would be a duh. But who doesnt hate-watch The Bachelor? No one takes a show about twenty-five women vying for one man seriously. My editor at the LA Times decided we wouldnt write another word about the show until they reinstated my access. Some members of Bachelor Nationthats how ABC refers to us rose loverswere outraged on my behalf. My Twitter followers sent messages to show producers and network executives complaining that the ruling was unfair. The female-centric blog Jezebel even wrote an item about the scuffle:

While her coverage hasnt exactly been glowing, it hasnt been wholly horrible either. Perhaps she took one too many stabs at ABC last season... So a message to members of the press from The Bachelor family: youre cool, but only when youre doing it the Bachelor-approved way.

Still, ABCs so-called ban didnt stop me from publicly sharing my thoughts about The Bachelor. Even after the paper instituted its the show is dead to us policy, I kept watching and tweeting about the show as a fan. And in a way, it was freeing. Without a post-episode recap deadline to meet, I started viewing the series differentlytaking in how the Twittersphere reacted to storylines and analyzing how my feelings shifted throughout the course of a season.

I even decided to start an e-mail group, aptly titled Bach DiscushI hope youve gotten on the abbreviation train by now and invited about two dozen smart lady fans I knew to share thoughts about episodes and show-related news on the daily. Whenever a new season was airing, wed gather in my living room with ros and SkinnyPop to watch togethersomething that instantly elevated the viewing experience. Because many of us were entertainment journalists, wed often cross paths with Bach contestants, and sometimes we could even convince them to come watch themselves on TV with us. Eric Bigger, Ashley Iaconetti, and JJ Lane have all been guests on my couch, and once, Robby Hayes ghosted us after promising to come over and requesting we make him Moscow Mules. I have no use for those copper mugs now, you sockless liar!

While it is, admittedly, fun to make jabs about the drunken contestants with their staged limo entrances, I dont just watch the show because it can be a train wreck. By the finale each season, I find myself rooting for the final two to make it to the altar. Im weirdly touched by the cheesy proposalthese overwrought declarations of love between two people whove known each other for just a few weeks. In those moments, its easy to forget that just six couples in the history of the show have wed. (And I think Im being generous by including the two marriages that came out of Bachelor in Paradise in that figure. I refuse to count Marcus and Lacy. Sorry not sorry.)

A part of methirty-two years old, single, and Tindering up a stormwants to believe in the fantasy.

Sometimes, I even daydream about what it would be like if I were on the show. To be clear: Even if I werent banned, this would be a total pipe dream. I dont even have the kind of hands that an engagement ring would look good on. I still, embarrassingly, bite my nails, and I never get manicures. Plus, my friends often joke that if you were to take a photograph of just my hands, youd think they belonged to a pudgy five-year-old. When I was in second grade, my uncle, who made his living as a commercial photographer, asked if I wanted to earn $100 by working as a hand model for a toy catalog he was shooting, but when he got a look at my hands, my sister, who was a mere six years old at the time, was given the job over me.

Plus, I wouldnt want one of those gaudy Neil Lane rings, anyway. I want something rare and chiclike a unique crystal with meaning or an antique ring that belonged to someone important. It wont look expensive, per se, but at least Ill know the guy had to go farther than the Kay Jewelers at the mall to pick it out.

Besides, I could never pass the shows stringent yet unspoken body requirements. Even if they generously allowed me to go on as a plus-size model or some other bullshit, Im only five-foot-one, so no one would believe it. Ive literally never worn a bikini in my entire life. Not once. I never lay out. My skin is the color of newly fallen snow. That whole lounging by the pool thing? Ill take a book in a blanket-heavy nook, thank you very much.