I give up.
I completely give up.
I thought it would be a good way to start the year with a light, fun romp of a book, so I found a copy of “Bridget Jones’ Diary” online and started reading yesterday. I know, the movie came out back when people gave two shits about Renee Zellweger, but give me a break. I’ve never read chick lit in my life.
I thought it would be pretty cool. Something fun and very British to kick off my 2011 reading list.
My brief review: it’s a little too much like the Cathy comic strip in text form.
I can summarize the book for you, too, if you want: ACK ACK ACK HEART EYES HEART ACK ACK BLOODY SODDING ACK!
That’s it, mostly. Occasionally entertaining shots of wit, but I could read Cathy and get the same amount of fun for less the time of investment required.
I honestly thought I could give it a shot, but I’m stopping halfway through because life is too short to spend reading the whines of a really, really embarrassing specimen of XX chromosomes. I know Bridget Jones is supposed to be some kind of “real” woman, with “real” problems like her body image issues and trouble with douchebag boyfriends, but I just couldn’t relate.
A chapter or two into the book, I started wondering if there was something wrong with me. I’m 27, clearly not Bridget’s post-30 age range yet, but I was thinking I could at least find something universal to sympathize with in her situation. I could easily relate to Elizabeth Bennett, and we’re centuries apart for crying out loud.
But I just couldn’t see anything relevant in her battle against weight gain, her constant need for attention, her demand to be taken seriously even when she succumbs to the slightest flattery. It’s stupid, it’s insulting, and I don’t think I have enough fortitude to go through reading this book.
So, Bridget, I’m moving on.
Because real life is no Bridget Jones.
Cue The Wombats.