Every year when I watch The Bachelor, I list the reasons why I would be TERRIBLE on the show. First of all, I have a fear of heights and water, which would interfere with 95% of the dates. Also, I’ve got this whole hermit thing going on, so that would make it tough to live with all of the drunken drama AKA the other bachelorettes. There are SO MANY reasons I would fail to find “true love” on The Bachelor, but I think the top reason, other than the fact that I am married, would be my IBS. It’s hard to be sexy and adventurous when you are always looking for a bathroom. IBS is not something you can really hide, for long, and since I am the queen of TMI, I would probably lead with the whole poop issue. After watching the premier, I started to imagine what I would do and say when I got out of the limo. Here’s a possible scenario.
I would be the last to arrive, of course. I would follow all of the tall, lovely young women in their jewel-toned gowns. I would shove my short, size 8/10 middle-aged body into a brown dress. I would wear pantyhose with my dress because I’m not a fan of the whole bare leg look, especially with my Dublin stubs. As soon as Juan Pablo saw my short, stubby legs, with clunky flat shoes (I hate heals) exit the limo, he would sense that I was special.
When I walked up to him, I would say, “Hi, I’m Lisa. I’m wearing brown because poop is brown.” Juan Pablo would look frightened, and maybe do a nervous laugh. I would keep going though. This is me. Since a lot of the girls hand the bachelor small gifts when they first meet him, I would hand him a box of Gas-X strips. He would look at the box in his hand, and look down at me (because I am five foot nothing, not because I have issues) and ask me, “Is this for Camila?” in his adorable accent. The strips do look like children’s medicine.
I would chuckle, roll my eyes, and say, “No. If I eat gluten, dairy, anything fried, foreign food, or too many cruciferous vegetables, and I look like I’m in pain, like this (I would clutch my stomach and make my best lemon-sucking face), put one of these on my tongue.”
Juan Pablo would look at the box, and look around, for help, and nod his head slowly at me. I would go on, “I should be fine. I have IBS, you know irritable bowel. So, just don’t make me eat strange, foreign food, nothing with curry, for sure. And I’m so not eating a bug or any weird seafood. Don’t take me to places without indoor plumbing. I’m not a port-a-potty girl, and I can’t really hold it. Also, I refuse to share a bathroom with anyone, especially one of those drunk tramps from the limo. I will NEVER ride in a helicopter or rappel down a building. I could get the stress poops, and who wants to see that on TV.”
“What? The stress poops?” Juan Pablo takes a step back and nearly trips over a plant.
I nod, and step forward so I can hear him better. His accent makes it tough. “Yep. When I get nervous, I get sick to my stomach. Don’t worry. I took pills before coming here. Also, I’m only 42, I mean 28, but I have the hearing of an 80 year-old. So, lose the accent and talk louder.”
After that, Chris Harrison would walk out of the mansion, stand next to Juan Pablo, and say, “Juan Pablo, Lisa, that was the final limo this evening. It’s time to come inside for the cocktail party.” Chris holds his hand out, in the direction of the mansion.
I nod and walk past Chris and Juan Pablo, towards the mansion, without wobbling as I had the good sense to wear flats. Chris and Juan Pablo follow behind me, probably checking me out. I’d probably get the first impression rose.