Eating ice cream in the car, putting bacon on everything, watching Elvis movies, soaking in a bubble bath . . . everyone has one, or maybe two. Guilty Pleasures. Things we do to amuse ourselves, soothe our angst, relax, or to pamper ourselves after a stressful day. They’re the activities we indulge in when life gets us down, or we’re bored, or to while away an unexpected evening alone.

I know people who love Hallmark movies—even though the plots are paper thin, the settings are impossibly perfect and the characters are always stunningly beautiful. Others may enjoy a gory, terrifying horror movie, or my favorite—a rom-com in which people meet” cute” fall in and out of love and back in love in the span of a 70-minute film, and live happily ever after.  

But my real guilty pleasure is watching an incredibly flawed series on Netflix set in the City of Love—yes, I’m a fan of Emily in Paris. I know the fashions Emily and her friends wear are outrageous and probably are not what sophisticated French women wear, and Emily herself is the quintessential American—refusing to learn to speak French even though she has been living there for three years. I’m aware of the critique of her typical American personality—always working, even in her free time, and always having the perfect solution to every problem. Despite acknowledging all of this, I still enjoy the show—the intrigues, the relationships, and especially the scenery. I enjoy that the lovely City of Paris is showcased, even though it’s on a glob of cotton candy like Emily in Paris.  

I’m more than aware of the shallowness of the show—but that’s why it’s a guilty pleasure. It’s improbable, silly even—and escapist. So, I make no apologies. I know there are better ways to use my time, but none take me away like my guilty pleasure.