Is Watching Rich Women Scream At Each Other A Form Of Self-Care?
I need help. Like, actual, professional help.
Because for reasons I cannot explain, watching grown, wealthy women with more designer handbags than emotional stability scream at each other is my personal form of white noise. (I’m actually watching RHOBH as we speak because it’s my calm-down show after work. For real.)
Forget ocean waves or soft rain sounds—give me Real Housewives of Anywhere flipping tables and throwing wine, and my blood pressure drops like I just did yoga with a side of Xanax.
Why? I don’t know.
That’s why I’m here, publicly admitting my problem.
Let’s talk about iconic moments. Remember The Real Housewives of New Jersey table flip? Teresa Giudice yelling “Prostitution whore!” while flipping an entire table like it owed her money?
I should’ve felt stressed. I didn’t. My brain went, “Ah, yes, peace.”
Or the Real Housewives of Atlanta fight where Kenya Moore brought a megaphone to a verbal argument, proving that subtlety is for peasants.
Porsha Williams dragged her across the floor, and instead of recoiling in horror, I found myself deeply relaxed, like I’d just had a hot stone massage.
What is wrong with me?
And who could forget Beverly Hills and the absolute poetry of “You stole my goddamn house!” accompanied by the elegant tossing of a glass of wine.
I felt serenity wash over me like a warm bath. These women are arguing over beach houses and birthday party guest lists, and somehow it soothes my soul.
Maybe it’s the sheer pettiness. The stakes are zero. No one’s life is at risk because Lisa didn’t return Kyle’s text about brunch.
It’s chaos with no consequences.
A safe, ridiculous universe where the worst thing that can happen is a poorly planned dinner party.
I think that’s it. The absurdity is comforting. In a world full of real problems, watching rich people invent problems is oddly therapeutic.
Their disasters are my lullabies.
So yes, I need a diagnosis. Maybe even an intervention. But for now, I’ll be over here, stress-free, watching women in six-inch heels scream about who did or did not RSVP to a charity gala. Namaste.
