As the fog lifts on the most dramatic three-month scandal that rocked us to our very core (though it had absolutely nothing to do with us), I can’t help but wonder, “Why was this time different?”
I am an avid Bravo viewer; from the days of backyard reunions and table flips to getting tricked into watching spin-offs of spin-offs, I am no stranger to drink-throwing brawls. Rumors are doctrine, kids are off-limits, and there’s been nary a real estate season nor housewife city devoid of a cheating storyline.
As loyal viewers, we develop parasocial investments in these reality characters whose lives are outlined by producers and unfold “naturally.” When they are wronged, we gasp and text the one friend we know is also watching. When they succeed, we credit their accomplishments to the exposure received by allowing strangers into their homes. We ask all the obvious questions like, “Why?” but when the episode ends, so does our awe, and we go back to complaining about the verbosity of recipe blogs. The reality drama is confined to the reality bubble.
Until Scandoval.
Scandoval has been so all-consuming, I can hardly remember a time before it existed. It snowballed so aggressively, describing it as “snowballing” barely feels like a strong enough word. The story itself doesn’t defy the bounds of our comprehension: Boy cheats on partner-of-a-decade with one of their best friends then refuses to move out of the house they own together. It’s almost Shakespearean in its tragic simplicity. But not in the way we, as a culture, absorbed it.
Ariana had already held the hearts and minds of Bravo-lovers; she came onto the show whip-smart, loyal, witty, and beautiful. She spoke her mind and seemed to have fewer ulterior motives than most (aside from her cringe proclamation that she takes “sketch comedy very seriously”). The moments she shared with us, the viewers, were about shame and toxicity, body image and mental health. She was relatable, the girl next door if the girl next door bartended at a restaurant designed to house affairs. (Lisa Vanderpump said herself that Villa Blanca is where you take your wife; SUR is where you take your mistress.) The relationships and loyalties of the rest of the cast ebbed and flowed, but Ariana’s relationship with Tom Sandoval was presented as stable—they bought a home together, which in Los Angeles is a bond deeper than any diamond ring.
For ten years, we watched this couple discuss marriage, kids, and how to support each other, doling out advice to other couples as the mom and dad of Vanderpump (Valley) Village.
When the news broke of Tom Sandoval’s affair, the most recent season had yet to air, leaving us to sit through hours of footage of Ariana professing her unwavering trust in Tom and her BFF, Raquel. Tom cheating was not that unfathomable, but with Raquel? The girl Ariana took under her wing? The Bambi-eyed-bitch who had just freed herself from a controlling relationship and turned to Ariana for support and friendship? Never.
In a moment, we became Ariana. The timeline, the length of the affair, the deep feelings involved, the players themselves, the constant lying, the brazenness, the location of the sex, the “diabolic” behavior of Raquel quizzing Ariana about her relationship with Tom—the man she was already sleeping with—upended our understanding of reality and reality TV. It felt like a Telenovela, but it was real, and it was happening in slow motion, before our eyes, to someone we decided didn’t deserve it. If this had happened to any other person on the show, and it has, we would never have taken to the streets in the same way, proven by our collective disregard for the Katie/Schwartz/Raquel debacle. Katie is divisive, but Ariana? She’s one of us. We ride at dawn.
Quite frankly, Tom cheating on Ariana was the best thing that’s ever happened to her (to all of us) and it is difficult to tell if she’s receiving so much attention because the story is that riveting or if the story outgrew itself because of all the attention brands started to give her. Those of us who consistently tout the benefits of reality TV—low-hanging conversation starters, mindless fun watching people with too much time and money arguing over whose house has more square footage—knew immediately that Scandoval was bigger than the bubble; it was only a matter of time before Others jumped on the bandwagon. After all, if Duracell is part of the conversation and white nail polish is banished, everyone needs to know why. People who lament the mere existence of Bravo tuned in—the Vanderpump Rules reunion viewership broke records.
Ariana went from bartender to reality star to scorned woman to attendee at The White House Correspondents’ Dinner faster than I could type this sentence. She has sold more than $200,000 in merchandise for a sandwich shop that hasn’t even opened yet (while her ex drains his mother’s retirement account trying to keep his bar afloat); she has starred in razor commercials, battery commercials, and there are talks of a paper towel sponsorship (IYKYK), she hard-launched a new and incredibly hot boyfriend, she threw out the first pitch at a Padres game, partnered with Canes, SoFi, Uber One, and Joyburst, and she was just on the cover of Glamour.
Still a devastating betrayal, yes, but garnering the support of the entire world during a breakup feels like something that would certainly ease the blow.
Ariana Madix is the moment and her protagonism has blown way past 15 minutes because of how well we feel we know her.
Scandoval is both a story of betrayal that makes us, her closest friends and confidantes, question our own friends and lovers and a story of triumph—a superior woman loses the dead weight of a narcissistic man, and we get to witness just how brightly her (our) star can shine.