For better or for worse, probably much worse, I’m going to watch “The Bachelorette” tonight.
It’s a so-called reality TV show that my wife is addicted to and, to put it politely, I am not.
Tune in ABC at 8 p.m. for the episode filmed on Hilton Head Island and in Bluffton in March.
We saw a blimp peering from above Hilton Head, and Calhoun Street in Bluffton closed for a late-night concert, of all things. By late, I mean well, well after dark.
I do not care about the so-called plot, which our Liz Farrell covered so well, like she does each breathless episode of “Southern Charm.” Who could forget: “Kathryn cries. Landon cries. Shep deserves to cry.”
I don’t know whose turn it is to cry on “The Bachelorette” as the star whittles down the batch of suitors she could potentially marry. There used to be “Dating Game” before there was a “Newlywed Game.”
And we had to have our own reality — real reality — to get by in Bluffton and on Hilton Head. Like telling again the legends of Harry Cram, who rode a horse into Savannah’s swank Desoto Hotel, and shot two Marines in a burglary on his island in the May River that once was home to an Episcopal monestery.
We didn’t need to make up reality, even if our lives were stuck at the four-way stop.
My wife asks when I turn a golf tournament on TV: “Are we going to sit here and watch grass grow?”
Tonight’s the night that I just say no.
It’s time to plug in the real Bluffton, as seen on TV.