Down the Binge Rabbit Hole

 

Sidelined by a broken foot, can’t look away from train wreck of the Mormon Wives. 

 

Mary McCarthy

 

Growing up in a Catholic school bubble, we didn’t really learn about other religions. We learned every day in Religion class that there was the Catholic religion, and then we learned that the alternative to that is: you go to hell. Today on Good Friday is a time to remember that in our own religion, most people also go to hell for violating commandments or their amendments. 

 

This recovering Catholic preamble is to establish my “live and let live” philosophy. I don’t judge other belief systems or religions, but I definitely was raised in one where judging is an absolute pro level spectator sport. When my oldest kid was 12 and refused confirmation because the church “hates gays and women,” I was proud of it and agreed with her. 

 

So last week, in the middle of sorting/packing six decades’ worth of my parents’ belongings as a result of my mom’s recent passing, I was dashing down the steps holding a laundry basket to meet someone at the door who was coming to pick up furniture and fell, breaking my foot and tearing a ligament in my ankle: a terrible sprain. Having once worked for orthopedic surgeons and raised four kids with various orthopedic encounters, I heard/felt the loud pop and groaned: I hate emergency rooms and urgent cares, an j had plans to go the Brandi Carlile concert in Philly that night. I tested: the ankle could bear weight, I just could turn it in the direction of the injury. Cool. I went to CVS, got an ace bandage and brace in a box, iced and elevated it and took ibuprofen before the concert, micro dosed pot gummies for pain and inflammation, and drove back to my regular ortho in Maryland the next day. That’s The Story. I’m in an aircast for the 6-8 week recovery.

 

So blame the bum foot/ankle, but I started bingeing Secret Lives of Mormon Wives. I am not normally a reality tv person at all, but hear me out. My favorite genre is “Cultyor Serial Killerish Documentary,” and I’d seen Evil Influencer: The Jodi Hildebrandt Story about Mormon child abusers Jodi and her bff and fellow abuser Ruby, with whom she shared a bed while calling the LGBTQ community “deviants.” Seeing the doc made me curious about what Mormons believe overall, since I didn’t know, and l’d remembered hearing about Secret Lives of Mormon Wives. I quite realize the show isn’t a documentary, hadn’t yet realized the level at which it’s a completely trashy reality show, and again was vulnerable to hours doing crafts in front of the tv because of my injury, so down and fast into the chaotic rabbit hole I fell. 

 

The show follows a group of Utah Mormon mom influencers whose perfectly filtered family content starts to crack under the pressure of real life. No worries their twenty something faces will crack, as they get Botox on the regular because they love the laughing gas. What begins as ass-shaking winky TikTok dances and coordinated outfits and hair extensions and turns into a swirl of friendship drama, shifting loyalties, and the fallout from a very public “soft swinging” scandal that rocked their community even though we spend many episodes getting to the bottom of the Mormon definition of soft, which is very much on the soft side of soft. Their apparent ringleader Taylor Frankie Paul made a viral confession that basically blew up their world and forced everyone to confront what’s real, what’s curated, and what faith looks like when it collides with fame. One of the things I’ve been interested to follow is how these young women have handled transforming fleeting reality/internet fame (what if tiktokdisappeared tomorrow?) into more permanent celebrity. Sitting around judging and bashing other women isn’t going to make you a treasured figure in American history. Only one of the reality stars has established a bit more of a foothold in American celebrity: Whitney checked out early from the drama (received constant bashing by the others) and went on to appear on Dancing with the Stars and landed a role as Roxie Hart in Chicago on Broadway. 

 

Of course this show was no way to learn about the Mormon religion. But honestly, what I have learned has been wild: they can’t drink coffee or tea, watch porn, masturbate or be gay, and they turn over 10% of their money to a church founded by some 40 year old random dude named Joe? Um, weird. 

 

What makes the series weirdly compelling isn’t just the gossip. It’s the tension between devotion and desire, tradition and modern identity, sisterhood and competition. These women care about family and sometimes about faith, but they’re also navigating money, power, jealousy, and the intoxicating pull of millions of followers watching their every move. At different times in the series I wouldn’t want to have to do a blind poll of whether they care more about view and followers than the Mormon church, trust me. It’s plump-lip glossy and extremely messy at the same time. Even as I’m rolling my eyes at the ridiculous theatrics and manufactured drama, it’s the perfect fluff distraction from grief and the piles of dirty snow outside, and I’ll fall asleep watching it every night until I run out of episodes. 

 

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky.