I'm a Survivor

Thankfully, the dead time between fantastical summer reality programs (The Bachelorette and Top Chef were amazing) and the new fall line-up is finally over and I have a full-to-bursting DVR right now. There were some glitches while we were away for my sister's wedding, and the season premiers of some shows did not tape, but all was made right when my husband, Phil Dunphy, was able to access them through the interwebs with the help of his new girlfriend, I mean, ipad.

Our favorite show, Survivor, is off to a good start this season, full of goat herders and former NFL coaches, and this time they have split the players into an "older" tribe and a "younger" tribe. Probst, who has not gotten the memo yet that trucker caps are so 2002, divided the group by directing "anyone 30 and over to this side, anyone 30 and under to that side". Apparently, we people in our thirties are too smart or too busy to go into the wilderness for a month without toilet paper. As H's doppelganger, John Stewart, put it, "you have shit to do".*

After the tribe had spoken, H and I had our usual conversation, at the beginning of a new season, about how each of us would do on Survivor. I think H would do spectacularly well, with his intelligence, wit and watch-first-then-get-involved philosophy. Me, on the other hand? Not so much. I think if I managed not to piss my entire tribe off during the first day, making plans for building the shelter and assigning their lazy asses to wood-gathering and water-boiling duty, I'm sure I'd wind up in a fight pretty soon thereafter, when my tolerance for twenty-something angst and knee socks** had been surpassed. But, aside from the fact that I wouldn't even make it to the jury and I would be one of those, "Remember her?" faces during the opening credits, I have a lot of other problems with the show that prevent my sending in a tape.

First of all, clothing. Remember, once upon a time, Survivor contestants were allowed to bring a bag of clothing with them? And I'm not talking about sneakers and a swimsuit. People in the earlier seasons had t-shirts, long pants, anoraks, multiple pairs of socks!!! They were even allowed to bring a luxury item (Colby's Texas flag did prove a useful tarp). The once season-specific gimmick of dropping the tribes off with only the clothes on their backs, has now become derigueur. And considering the outfits a lot of these idiots wind up in, it seems the producers don't tell them what day this will be, tricking them with gatherings for "publicity photos", which is how we find men in suits and women in high heeled shoes on a beach in Fiji. So what would I do? Would I show up for every group event dressed in my cargo pants, Yankee cap and water-proof sneakers, with my full-coverage J Crew bathing suit underneath? Or would my vanity get the best of me and I'd wind up a fool, hobbling along the beach, cursing the ruination of the pony shoes? Probably the latter.

And speaking of vanity, the number one thing that would hold me back from kicking some ass and winning the million bucks has just four little letters. H. A. I. R. Hair. It is a many-faceted issue. First of all, the color. It's in the credits, "THIRTY-NINE DAYS! ONE...SURVIVOR!" Except all I hear is "THIRTY-NINE DAYS! A QUARTER INCH OF ROOT!" Sure, sure, it's all cute to see the dark, new growth of young twenty-somethings when they haven't had access to a Clairol highlighting kit, but what's not cute is a stripe of gray running down my scalp if I miss my monthly appointment with Samantha, like some kind of Irish Cruella Deville. I still claim I color my hair for fun not necessity, I don't need hard physical evidence to the contrary.

And not only is my hair color is a problem, but the texture as well. Pretty much every day, poor H wakes up to a female Shaun White wearing a sleep mask and a Frownie. I'm sure the two days a week that I actually do get to tame my main are barely enough to overcome that daily eye sore. So imagine what my hair would look like after a month in tropical humidity, with no shampoo, brushes, hot styling tools or product. And yes, I could tie it back, but it would have to be let loose to dry out once in a while lest I grow a head fungus - of which I was beginning to fear this summer with my constant sweating and bun-wearing when one day H said, "Your hair smells weird." I just imagine releasing it from the elastic to have it puff up like those instantly-expanding Chinese rice noodles.

Once we move past the hair on my head, it's hair in all the other places I'd worry about. How the hell do these women have hairless bikini lines after a month? The research I did claims they only have access to vital medical supplies like sunscreen, insect repellent (which some of them apparently do not know how to use, so bitten up are their legs), saline and prescription medication. Nowhere on the list is a razor. I guess they all invest in laser hair removal which I would need to do, if not for the nether regions, than for the old lady beard I am starting to grow. Long, white hairs like a damn witch!!! H thinks reciting lines from The Three Little Pigs will get him laughs. It goes like this... "Not by the ha-uuhhh! (gasping for air) Hey! That hurt!!" I can deal with armpit, leg and bikini line hair, but when I have a chance of looking like that woman from Throw Momma from the Train, I'm done.

Of course, there are the general hygiene concerns we all think about when we see shows like these. No showers! No toothbrushes! No toilets! That is the one that gets me. A few seasons back, there was an elderly Asian contestant who became so constipated he was taken off the show for medical purposes. That? Would be me. Crapping in a hole in the woods surrounded by strangers? I think I'm going to need an enema, Probst. And I'm sure that all-rice diet is not like packing your intestines full of cement at all. Can my luxury item be prunes?

We all know the biggest reason I wouldn't wind up on this show though is my big, damn mouth and lack of filter. I can just see myself during some endurance challenge, of which I would be the master, (Hand-eye coordination? Not so much. Stubborn streak? A mile wide.) and Probst would say something like, "Mary, her legs are starting to shake, she might be on her way out..." and I'd growl, "SHUT UP, PROBST!!!" And instead of rolling my eyes behind a tribemates back when they were talking smack at tribal council I'd have to set the record straight, which I'm sure would charm and delight and win me friends. I'd be shouting at the back of the recently voted-off, "See you at the finale - LOSER!".

So while it might make great TV for you guys, I think I'm going to stay right here at home where I can mercilessly judge the people dumb enough to put themselves in this situation. Besides, how different is my life from the show? As it is, I am surrounded by crazy people, I never get to shower, often do not brush my teeth (until I remember later in the day), and have overgrown body hair. But I'm not going to win a million dollars. I don't have chin hairs though.

*Not sure what I'm talking about? Google "million moderate march" immediately. "We're here America! But inly until six...we have a sitter."
**Why do these young chicks think knee high wool socks are the way to go when on a tropical isle? Looking to make a fashion statement? A white, sequined gown is all you need. Just ask Ginger.