Why Emily in Paris is 2020’s Ultimate Hate Watch

Too many berets, not enough struggle. But enough pretty to numb out.

I recently bought a tub of corn nuts from the local IGA. Once in a while, I love corn nuts. They’re fried, but I pretend they’re healthy because…I don’t know why. These corn nuts had a particular nasty flavor. Maybe from palm oil? It makes everything taste like fake butter, like scratch ’n’ sniff popcorn would taste if it were scratch ’n’ lick. I was going to throw them out, but instead I decided to eat them because they were there, and soon polished them off.

That’s my Emily in Paris experience in a (corn) nutshell.

I despised the first fifteen minutes. I was going to call it a day after half an episode, but a friend was able to talk in so much more detail about why the show sucks (“Did you see the spontaneous singing scene? OMG cringe”), I started feeling legitimate imposter syndrome. I wanted to hate it with more authority, so I hit RESUME on episode 1 and pushed on through.

It didn’t get better, but it grew on me until I found myself addicted.

Like a twelve-year-old, I watched it on my iPhone in the car, and whined “DAMMIT!” when it froze and buffered as we lost cell service on the road.