by Sean Lowe
“What’s your dream girl?” she asked.
“I want someone I can laugh with,” I said, suddenly realizing I was already sounding like a cliché. “I want someone who doesn’t take life too seriously. You know, someone who could be my best friend.”
She nodded affirmatively as I spoke, as if what I was saying were profound.
“What are your future goals?” she asked. After I explained that I didn’t want to sell insurance for the rest of my life, she followed up with, “What do you hope to get out of this experience?”
Her questions were rapid-fire and ranged from my upbringing to my football career.
After about thirty minutes, she closed the folder that had been in her lap, stood up, and said, “You did great! Now I want you to meet a couple of my friends.”
She walked me into another room connected to the room where we’d just interviewed.
Much to my surprise, about twenty people were sitting in chairs in a semicircle in front of a television. Immediately, I felt my face turn red. I was overwhelmed at the thought that they’d just seen everything.
“Wow,” I managed to say. “I didn’t realize I had an audience.”
They all looked at me with big smiles. Well, at least they seemed happy to see me.
“Please,” Chloe said, motioning to a chair in front of the semicircle. “Have a seat.”
If I thought the last interview was intense, this was an inquisition. They started throwing questions at me from all over the room.
“What’s your biggest fear?”
“What is your biggest strength?”
“What do you hope to get out of life?”
I answered all their questions with ease. They made me feel comfortable because they laughed at my jokes. That’s basically all it takes with me.
“What sort of woman do you typically date?” they asked.
“Well, I don’t discriminate,” I said, “if that’s what you mean. I’ve dated a woman who is Hispanic, someone who’s mixed-race, a girl from Jordan . . . I judge women based on their values, whether we get along, not their race. After all, opposites attract!”
“And what kind of values would you say you have?”
“I’m a man of faith,” I said. Then I added a bit more specificity. “I’m a Christian.”
When I said the word Christian, I wondered if that would be a strike against me. However, it seemed as though everyone liked what they were hearing. I didn’t know what they were looking for. Most candidates think the show is looking for someone who has all the right answers. I later learned they were actually looking to see if I was personable and whether I would “show up” on television.
I walked back to my hotel room feeling like I’d just nailed it. I stretched out on the bed, looked at the ceiling, and laughed. What a weird experience. Just then, I was yanked out of my reverie when my phone rang.
Mom.
“Hey, do you want to come over for dinner?” she asked.
I was completely at a loss for words.
“Everyone’s going to be here,” she said. “So I might need you to pick up some things on the way.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”
“Okay, well, you can come over after church on Sunday if you’d like.”
“Mom,” I said, realizing that the next words that came out of my mouth would hurt her. “I’m not in town. I’m in Los Angeles.”
“What?” she said. “Since when? Why? Who are you with?”
I decided I’d gotten far enough in the casting process that it wasn’t kind to keep her in the dark, so I was completely honest.
“I’m at a casting call for The Bachelorette.”
She paused for a couple of seconds, then laughed.
“No, really,” she said. “What are you doing?”
“Andrew and Shay submitted an application for me,” I said, believing it might be a good idea to lay a little blame on them. “I didn’t even know about it.”
“Why would you want to go on a trashy television show like that?” she asked. Then she added, “Does Dad know?”
Slowly, Mom began to understand the situation. For months, everyone in the family knew this was a possibility, and we’d kept it only from her. I could tell she was upset by the tone in her voice and the way she clipped her sentences.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said, realizing how hurtful this must be for her. “I honestly didn’t think I’d get this far, and I didn’t want you to get upset for no reason.”
She ended the conversation by faking her normal “mom voice” to cover up what I knew was sadness and maybe a little anger.
“Okay, well, maybe you can make it next weekend,” she said before she hung up.
I felt terrible. Mom was devastated—probably in equal amounts—that I was auditioning for the show and that we’d kept her out of the loop.
When I went back to Dallas, my life suddenly seemed duller than ever, and it didn’t help that I’d alienated my mom. A couple of days after I settled back into my normal routine, my phone rang again.
“I just want you to know,” Mom said in a soft voice, “that I really want you to get this. If you’re selected, I’ll be your biggest supporter.”
I don’t care that I was twenty-eight years old. I’ll never get so old that my mom’s approval doesn’t mean something.
For the next few weeks, the casting director would call to check up on me, to see how I was doing, and to answer any questions I might have.
I was at work when “the call” came, which was appropriate since Andrew and Shay were the instigators of all this.
“Hello, Sean,” said Tabby. “I’m happy to offer you an official invitation to be a part of The Bachelorette.”
Suddenly, I was overwhelmed. But not with a desire to find true love on a reality TV show.
I wanted to win.
“What are you going to wear?” Andrew asked as I was packing to go a few weeks later.
“Since when are you concerned about my wardrobe?” I laughed.
“Just be thankful you’re not a girl,” Shay said, settling in to the couch next to Andrew. “Guys can get a couple of suits, several ties, and call it a day.”
“Tell that to the producers,” I said, pulling out the packet of instructions they’d sent me. “I have to bring enough clothes for up to two months, including swimsuits, heavy coats, sweaters, T-shirts, tank tops, casual day clothes, gloves, and hats.”
“Think about all the amazing places you’ll go,” she gushed. “All over the world, probably.” She got off the couch, peeked at the papers, and began reading over my shoulder. “You have to ‘avoid stripes, small checkered patterns, big patterns, and solid white,’ ” she said. “Plus, you have to ‘be prepared for fourteen formal occasions for the show’s rose ceremonies.’ ”
“Fourteen?” I asked. “That’s a lot of clothes. And it’s all supposed to fit in two bags.”
“Don’t worry,” Andrew said. “You’ll probably be sent home on the first night.”
Shay rolled her eyes, but I didn’t mind. In fact, when I was in Los Angeles for my casting call, Andrew had sent me an encouraging text:
Mark my words: you’re going to win.
I made a note of the date and his exact words in my phone so I’d remember his message. Not only did I appreciate the support from my family, but it also helped that my boss was fine with me going off on this little lark to North Carolina.
The next Bachelorette, Emily Maynard, who’d gotten engaged to—and soon separated from—Bachelor Brad Womack in a previous season, was from Charlotte. Her tragic story had been repeated several times on the show: she’d been engaged to a NASCAR driver when he died in a plane crash in 2004. Just days later, she found out she was pregnant with his child, whom she named after her fiancé: Ricki. When she went on The Bachelor, it looked as if she had finally found love again, but her engagement to Brad was short-lived.
In my opinion, Emily was a great choice, and not just because s
he was gorgeous. In addition to her brown eyes and blonde hair, she had wit, grace, and Southern charm.
There was no way I’d fall in love with her.
I know, I know. It is a show about love. I’d watched it enough to understand that. When I was chosen to go on the show, I went back and watched the season of The Bachelor on which Emily was a contestant. It reminded me a little of watching film back in college as we prepared for a big football game—except with a few more cocktail dresses. At that time, only two of the official Bachelors or Bachelorettes had tied the knot. The original Bachelorette, Trista Rehn, married season 1 winner Ryan Sutter, while season 7 Bachelorette, Ashley Hebert, married J. P. Rosenbaum. No Bachelors had ever tied the knot with the girl they selected on the show.
“I want to go on a shopping spree with you,” Shay said, taking the papers from my hands. “Where’s the part about your clothing allowance?”
“Yeah, you won’t find anything about it,” I said, feeling my throat tighten. “I’m responsible for buying all of my own clothes.”
“What?” Shay was incredulous. “That’s going to be a lot of money.”
When she stated the obvious, I took a deep breath. Anxiety crawled through me until I thought of my wonderful Granddaddy. He was raised in Alabama, poorer than dirt. His father was very abusive physically and drank a lot. Granddaddy used to tell me the story about how when he was fourteen years old, he tried to get a job to take care of his family. He applied at the movie theater, and the manager told him he’d like to give him a job. He didn’t get the position, though, because they didn’t have uniforms back then. The manager told him, quite frankly, that his clothes weren’t nice enough. The thought of my Granddaddy as a fourteen-year-old kid having to support his family really put things into perspective.
“I’ll figure it out,” I told Shay.
“You can’t just hope for the best.” Andrew held up his hand. “You need a new suit. A good one. Let Shay and me get you one as our gift.”
I was deeply touched by this kind gesture. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
“It’s only because we don’t want you to make us look bad,” Shay said. “We’re the ones who sent in your application, after all.”
“And speaking of hideous,” Andrew said. “What’s up with your hair?”
Shay punched her husband in the arm.
“Weren’t you wondering too?”
Instinctively, I reached up to my head and ran my fingers through my hair, which was longer than usual.
“The producers wanted me to grow it out,” I said. In one of my previous conversations with the producers, they told me to work on my look by growing out my hair. Maybe my All-American look was too boring for a prime-time television show.
Shay looked at my head skeptically. “I don’t think your head is the right shape or . . . something.”
The next day, I continued my show preparation by e-mailing the producer, breaking the news that my hair wasn’t looking as good as they had hoped, and getting it cut back to its normal, short, boring length. Then I went to the mall and filled up several bags of clothing—T-shirts, shorts, socks, sandals, tennis shoes, everything. But the suits were harder to figure out. Not only were they more expensive, but it was more complicated than simply picking one up at the mall. Apparently, my brother-in-law is the kind of big shot who gets all his suits custom made, so he sent his seamstress to take my measurements. Within weeks, I had a navy blue, perfectly fitted suit. My parents also kindly bought me a couple of suits, which completed my wardrobe for the show.
Emily’s season was not going to begin in Hollywood. Because she didn’t want to disrupt her daughter’s life too dramatically, ABC agreed to bring the show’s production to her hometown. On the morning of my flight to Charlotte, North Carolina, I placed my new purchases on the table and began stuffing them into my bags.
“Wait, wait,” Andrew said. He and Shay had come over because they agreed to take me to the airport. “Fold your shirts like this, and hang them up as soon as you get there,” he said as he situated my clothing in the bag.
“There’s just not enough room.”
“Well, you can’t show up looking like you slept on the street,” he said. By the time I had to leave, I threw five bags into the back of Andrew and Shay’s Tahoe. Yes, that was more than I was supposed to be allocated, but there was no way to fit all those clothes for all those climates in two bags. As we drove to the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport, I called Dad.
“You busy?” I asked.
I could tell from his voice he was in a public place.
“I’m in the locker room at the gym, getting ready to work out,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“I’m on my way to the airport and just wanted to tell you good-bye. I won’t be able to talk to you for several weeks.”
“Your mom and I have and will continue to pray for you, son,” he said. “I love you, and I know God will use you somehow in all of this.”
When I hung up the phone, my mind raced. What was I getting myself into? What would it be like to have cameras following me around all the time? What would the other guys be like?
But the one thing that kept coming back to me was the text Andrew sent me when I was auditioning in Los Angeles.
Mark my words: you’re going to win.
four
A NOT-SO-MEMORABLE FIRST IMPRESSION
The producer smiled, with her hand outstretched. “Hand it over.”
I arrived in Charlotte about three days before filming was to start, and the first thing I had to do was give up my phone. The producers wanted to control every aspect of our lives, for obvious reasons. They didn’t want to invest time and money into our potential relationships with Emily, only to have their investment ruined by former flames wooing us away via e-mail, phone, or text. Also, they didn’t want any confidential information leaking out to a hungry press.
For many people, this was the hardest moment of all—handing over the one thing that connects you to friends, family, and—really—the world. But I couldn’t wait to get rid of my phone, which had haunted me for months. Every time it rang after the collapse of our company, it meant bad news or a terribly uncomfortable conversation. After things settled down with that situation, it became my connection to work e-mails. I was thrilled that I no longer had to respond to the constant noise of work communication. Good riddance, I thought as I turned off my phone and handed it to the producer.
Though I was glad to be free from my phone, it meant there was no easy way to kill time while I was on The Bachelorette. My hotel room had nothing for entertainment but a minibar and a hotel television. I’d been on Sagi’s diet so long I wouldn’t touch the minibar, and watching television got old after about an hour. I sat on the bed, looked out the window, and wondered if any of the guys I saw walking in from the parking lot were my competition. Looking back, I realize those days in the hotel room alone were a big part of the show prep. When I’m bored in normal life, I would’ve checked scores on ESPN, read the news, or texted my friends. But there, alone in my room, my only real option was to think about Emily. Would I like her? Or, more importantly, would she like me? Would I meet her daughter? What would it be like to date a mom? What should I say to her when I got out of the limo?
My thoughts were interrupted only when staffers would come and grab me to do various tasks—extremely awkward tasks. The first thing I did was take a written psychiatric evaluation.
When you get mad, do you ever think of hurting animals?
How do you feel when you lose twenty dollars?
After I answered five hundred questions, I had to meet with a psychiatrist who traveled with the cast. She read my questionnaire and asked me a few more questions.
“So what’s the verdict?” I asked at the conclusion. “Am I normal?”
She didn’t declare me “normal,” but she did give me the go-ahead on the show. Then I underwent an extensive background search.
Have you ever been
involved in pornography?
Have you ever sent anyone nude photos?
Have you ever been convicted of domestic violence?
To ratchet up the awkward a few more notches, the producers had to make sure we had no sexually transmitted diseases. As the nurse drew my blood, I thought, What have I gotten myself into?
Of course, we also had photos taken—headshots that would soon be put on The Bachelorette website for people to evaluate and judge.
Other than these things—which didn’t take up a ton of time—I sat in my hotel room and went stir-crazy. The night before filming was to begin, I was told the producers were scheduled to drop in and introduce themselves. I prepared myself for two or three visits—four, tops. I was surprised when one producer after another after another showed up. By the time I went to bed that night, about twenty people had stopped by, introduced themselves, and gauged whether I was ready for this adventure. One of the producers pulled me aside and lowered his voice.
“Traditionally, we try to pick the two guys we think have the best shot ending up with our girl to be the first and last out of the limo,” he said. “We want you to be first.”
I was so honored by this news that I could barely sleep that night.
The next morning, since I had nothing else to do, I started getting ready early. I paired the custom-fitted navy suit with a white shirt that had a blue checked pattern. I took a deep breath, looked in the mirror, and marveled at how much the cut on a suit can improve your look. Thank you, Andrew and Shay. When the knock came on my door, a producer telling me it was time to go, I couldn’t get out of that hotel room fast enough.
My limo had three other contestants, to whom I quickly introduced myself. On the show, the guys all seemed to go by their first names (or, even worse, descriptions: “the guy with the bad suit” or “the guy with the crazy eyes.”) But in the limo, in the last few moments before we entered the world of The Bachelorette, we still had last names, and I met Arie Luyendyk, John Wolfner, and Joe Gendreau.
