When it comes to trash TV, there are two types of men. A few months back, I met one of the first kind — the ones who open their heart to the complexities of unscripted television unapologetically, who dive in headfirst to the raw emotion, the heartache, the unbridled joy that comes from watching hysterical middle-aged women sometimes physically fight for views. At this friend’s house, he recommended we watch Below Deck, a show about horny yacht crews that spend weeks at sea serving millionaires and spend days off shagging their captain while blind drunk. Five episodes in and I was hooked. It’s a good thing the show has seven franchises to keep me going. Between the flagship Below Deck and Below Deck: Mediterranean alone, there are nearly 300 episodes.

Then there’s the other type of guy, the one who says things like, “I can feel myself losing brain cells,” when they catch even a glimpse of a Bravo trailer. He loiters around the living room when they hear the theme tune to The Bachelor or The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, never sitting to watch it (that’d be obvious) but always standing intently. Throughout, he’ll say things like, “How can you watch this crap?” but he’ll slip up with comments that make you realize he’s enthralled. “Does she really think that diamond is worth $2 million?” or “What on earth is Erika Jayne wearing?”