Learning to Love Ben, Part THE END

Dear Ben,

What are we doing here, Ben? What is anyone even competing for at this point? Is it you? Yeah? Well who are you besides the dude on The Bachelor? What are you into, Ben? Flying us to different countries — last week Puerto Rico, this week Panama, next week Belize — on someone else’s dime so we can take salsa lessons in countries where salsa didn’t even originate? While we’re at it, why don’t you let us get to know the real you by forcing us to bumrush an indigenous village so we can all have the amazing opportunity to play dress-up in a bunch of foreigners’ clothing and laugh and laugh at one another and how our boobies are showing? Sound like a good date?

Don’t forget that unique and endearing thing you do where you’re dumb-nice to strange women long enough to French each and every one of them so you can make an informed decision about whether to ask one to join you in the covenant of holy matrimony.

You hardly even spoke today, and when you did, at the dance lesson, it was to say “Salsa is sweaty and sexual.” We need to talk.

Actually, you know what? I’m sick of doing all the talking. Like only a handful of brave young souls before me, I’m going to pull myself out of this stupid race and not stick around long enough to see what you’re going to do with that final rose. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if you smoked it.

It’s been real (boring!).

Jane