I hope that my life will always remain exciting enough - or, more accurately, boring enough - that I won't ever appear on a reality television show.
There are four types of reality television programs, each type falling on a spectrum that ranges from "possibly watchable" to "instead of watching this I'd rather someone hacked my liver out with one of those kettle-cooked potato chips."
The most watchable category involves famous people doing interesting things. Popular shows such as Dancing With the Stars and Battle of the Blades fall into this category.
I'd consider watching these shows if I didn't spend all my TV time watching sports - it's basically the same thing except that with sports the fans aren't allowed to vote to determine the winner. That's probably for the best, otherwise Tim Tebow would end his career with 16 Super Bowls, eight Stanley Cups, 12 Wimbledon titles and four Olympic gold medals in women's luge.
The second category is non-famous people doing interesting things. Heavyweights such as The Amazing Race and American Idol fall into this category. I'd add Canadian Idol but I've already lowered the bar once in this column to throw in some Can-con.
With this category I'm only interested in scenes that feature close-ups of Heidi Klum. Auf wiedersehen? Nein, meine schatzchen. Guten morgen.
The third category is famous people doing non-interesting things. Actually, that should read "famous" people - the only reason the Kardashian sisters are famous is because people watch reality shows about the Kardashians being famous. Also, their dad used to know Kato Kaelin. Or something like that.
There's no way I'm watching one second of one program in this category. If I really want to see an angstridden celebrity, I'll go down to the Seawall and wait until Roberto Luongo walks by.
The fourth category boggles my mind: non-famous people doing non-interesting things. A couple of years ago a show from this category jumped out of my television, punched me in the face and then ate all my potato chips. It was on one of those cable channels that exists only to air horrible reality television shows and sell Slap Chops. It was a show about employees dealing with angry customers at an airline counter. I never got around to watching episode 1 but I assume episode 2 was the show's producers informing the employees that the show had been cancelled.
What show ideas did they turn down before landing on angry people waiting in line at one of the most stressful locations imaginable? Water Into Ice: A Look Inside the Freezer? Bottle Depot Bingo? Two and a Half Men?
One of the more successful shows in this final category is Hoarders, a series that examines the lives of people who obsessively collect things to the point that the piles of junk begin to take over. The show has a quasi public health/ charitable component to it in that they offer psychological counselling for the obsessive compulsives they feature while also helping them clean the fur, poo and dead kitties out of their kitty litter.
It can be a pretty gross show. That's why I started to hyperventilate a few weeks ago when I walked into my own bedroom and took in the scene: stacks of books piled on stacks of magazines piled on top of boxes of more magazines; an old cookie sheet with much of its shiny coating peeled off; honest to God cassette mixtapes; notes from the first-year chemistry class that made me decide that becoming a doctor was not worth one more second of chemistry class; a Pierre Berton book I most certainly will never read; three packages of Tropical Fruit Lifesavers.
Oh no. (Deep breath.) Am I? (Huff, puff). It can't be. (Hu hu hu hu hu hu, wheeeeeze.) Am I a h-h-h-hoarder? (Fade to black.)
When I woke up my mind was racing. What would I wear if the Hoarders cameras crashed through my door? I own one white tank top but it doesn't have any mustard stains on it.
I went through all the stupid excuses I'd recklessly allowed myself to make in the past. Maybe my son would want to one day read through all of my Sports Illustrated magazines. Maybe that cookie sheet will come in handy sometime when I need to MacGyver together a bulletproof vest.
Thankfully my wife talked me down. It was Christmas and our room had been overrun by decorations, boxes that used to hold decorations, things displaced by decorations, my son's 418 presents, things displaced by my son's 418 presents, things displaced by in-laws, things needed to distract me from in-laws. It would be temporary, she said. She was right.
Decorations went away. Old toys were given to friends to make room for new toys.
Tropical Lifesavers were thrown away. I'm happy to say that I can once again touch three of the four corners in my room without the help of plastic explosives.
I'm still on high hoard alert though. And I'm not above throwing myself an intervention if need be. Happily, January has proven a relaxing, uncluttered month in which I've been able to kick that nasty gravy addiction I picked up over the holidays while settling in to watch some good old sports on TV.
I'm not even that worried about being ambushed by some God-awful reality program. Do your worst, Khloe - I've still got my cookie sheet.
[email protected] James Weldon's column returns Feb. 10.
