If I had to pick a guilty pleasure, it would probably be watching “RuPaul’s Drag Race” every spring.

As the name and host suggest, Drag Race is a reality TV show based around finding the “next drag superstar.” I’ve heard it’s like “America’s Next Top Model” with drag queens, which would make a lot more sense if I actually watched “America’s Next Top Model.”

The fact that I have no interest in fashion is part of why this show is a surprisingly guilty pleasure. My “style” is jeans, T-shirts, flannel and Converse sneakers, not haute couture, six-inch heels and walking into the room purse first. My college roommate, however, was big into Top Model, so she found Drag Race first and started watching it with our other roommate.

“Just watch an episode with us,” she said one night during junior year. It was episode 10 of the sixth season, so I had no idea what was going on other than the fact that all the queens had way more fashion sense than I ever will.

Our other roommate eventually stopped watching it with us, but I got sucked in, and it became our Tuesday night routine to push our two college-issued couches together to make a nest and watch Drag Race. Sometimes we’d have to push it to Wednesday or the weekend if one of us had a meeting or a big paper to work on, but that was our time together, just us.

We cheered when insult queen and our personal favorite Bianca Del Rio won season 6. I consoled my roommate when Katya, our pick from season 7, was canned early in favor of a queen that both of us thought should’ve been cut seven episodes prior. After graduation, we went to our respective states, but I texted her play-by-play updates from home when I finally got to watch the finale of season 7. And we both chomped at the bit for season 8 to start this year.

We still text each other commentary on season 8, but now I have another watching buddy: my 11-year-old sister. My mom tolerated the episode I made her watch – she’s not big into fashion either – but my sister enjoyed it, so anytime my parents decided to go out to dinner by themselves or otherwise run away, we’d stay in and catch up on the part of season 6 that I missed.

Sam isn’t as anti-fashion as I am, but she’s sporty and the kind of person you have to fight with to get them to wear something other than leggings, which is why it’s so interesting that she got into Drag Race too. It’s gotten to the point where I have to cut her off because one of us has practice or because she has to go to bed.

She has never questioned the fact that guys are in dresses and makeup strutting their stuff on the runway and that they look gorgeous doing it. She has also never said anything about the scantily-clad “pit crew” that appear in episodes from time to time, which is good because I’m not sure how I would explain it to her. She just wants to watch the next episode. (Bonus: she, like my roommate and me, likes comedy queens, so the three of us are rooting for Bob the Drag Queen.)

The real shocker is the third person in this chain who started the show: my gramma. She and my grampa were over the house during April break to help renovate our bathroom when she said, “Oh, yeah, I watch Drag Race too.” She said it as casually as if she said, “Oh, yeah, I watch the news, too.” She doesn’t watch it as religiously as we do, and she mostly enjoys seeing RuPaul’s gown of the week, but it still elicits a chuckle to think that my Drag Race buddies are a librarian-in-training, an 11-year-old, and someone two generations above me.

Amanda Hutchinson is a May 2015 graduate of Ithaca College, a resident of Ledyard, and the assistant community editor for The Times. Read more of her work at amandalhutchinson.wordpress.com.