I dipped my toe into the pool of chick lit.
And I liked it.
No one is more surprised about this than I am. Those of you who keep an eye on the BookJetty widget over there on the right-hand side of the page may notice that my fiction choices don’t have covers featuring shoes or the color pink. I stick to classics, historic or modern. To non-fiction. Even my palate cleansing trash reads run no lower than Oprah’s book club.
But for some reason, I was possessed to pick up Bridget Jones’s Diary a few weeks ago. This despite being in a very happy relationshippy place and everything. Can I explain it? No. Can I squee about how much I enjoyed it?
That would be a “hell yes.”
For those of you unfamiliar with the oeuvre, Bridget Jones is sort of an unsuccesful British Carrie Bradshaw. Except normal-sized. The best part of her unfulfilling job is her hot-but-loutish boss. She obsessively tracks calories, cigarettes, and alcohol consumed. Her dad’s a sweetie but her mother is the stuff therapists’ dreams are made of.
Wise people will say Daniel should like me just as I am, but I am a child of Cosmopolitan culture, have been traumatized by supermodels and too many quizzes and know that neither my personality nor my body is up to it if left to its own devices. I can’t take the pressure. I am going to cancel and spend the evening eating doughnuts in a cardigan with an egg on it.
I can’t say how long I laughed at this. While none of my gazillionteen cardigans have eggs on them, I can identify with every other part of that excerpt. There’s a reason I can no longer keep snack foods in my apartment. To be fair, my stress-induced binge eating is much more job-induced than TheBoy-induced. But still.
I realized that I have spent so many years being on a diet that the idea that you might actually need calories to survive has been completely wiped out of my consciousness.
Now that I’ve lost all the weight, I’m a pretty avid calorie counter—it’s the one type of math I’m actually pretty good at. I may not understand trig (sine? what?), but give me four foods and I can tell you how much of each to eat for a 600-calorie meal. It’s just how my brain works now.
Bridget, though, puts me to shame. She uses more of a sliding, mood-based scale, which makes the calorie counts after her stressful days something to behold.
Feel very strange and empty. Is all very well thinking everything is going to be different when you come back but then it is all the same. Suppose I have to make it different. But what am I going to do with my life?
I know. Will eat some cheese.
Over the course of the original book and the sequel (yeah, I read the sequel too, shutup), Bridget has plenty of man-, job-, food-, and family-related hijinks. She documents them meticulously, though the syntax (starting sentences with “will” or “must,” for example), takes a little getting used to. As do the Britishisms, for those of you not unhealthily obsessed with England like I am (holla).
The books are much better than the movies. (Yeah, I watched the movies too, shutup.) The movies were entirely too treacly, and would probably have turned me off to the books had I seen them first. Darn chick flicks.