A Rant: Debunking the Myth of the Pink Book

An oldie but a goodie. Something I wrote back in the day that Dad saved on the ol' computer for just such an occassion.

DEBUNKING THE MYTH OF THE PINK BOOK

Beware of books with pink covers. Stay far away from them. Hence, "always judge a book by its cover." What sort of books am I referring to, you may be wondering. Well, I will gladly tell you. I am referring to the new genre of neo-feminist propaganda heralded in by the publishing of Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones' Diary and the ensuing hype as well as the torrential downpour of other such copycat books inaptly afforded the whored-out title 'literature.'

I admit, I found the books amusing. I found the witty cynicism of the "heroines" inspired and contemplative. At least, until I truly began to unwind the enigma known as the pink book.

There are thousands of them at present. In every book store throughout the world you find them, smugly sitting beside one another in their shiny pink jackets, willing the millions of lonely 20 and 30 something females to take them home in order to provide entertainment for yet another lonely Friday or Saturday night. We devour their tales, sympathizing with their plights, feeling as if the sky had opened and created a tale of our own lives to be sold en mass at Barnes and Nobles. Each book is the same, yet we buy them expecting each one to relate to us in a special way. We are sadly disappointed.

Let's take the founding mother of the movement herself, Bridget Jones, and dissect her to her most barren core. First and foremost, Bridget Jones is a supposedly heavyset women of average intelligence working at a dead end job and dreading the exposure of her singleness in a society of married couples as well as her eventual spinster death and eating by wild dogs. What woman in my situation wouldn't relate to that? That is the Bridget Jones myth. Let's examine the reality.

I am sure many of you are familiar with the film version wherein Renee Zellwegger portrays the part of our friend with pizazz and heart warming honesty. Excuse me but BULLCRAP! The visual picture of Bridget Jones is forever completely obscured. Granted, Renee gained 30 pounds to tackle the role, but I am convinced that 25 of it was in her boobs. In no way shape or form is the acceptable image of Bridget Jones near what I would equate with any of the following terms: obese, fat, tubby, plump, heavy set, healthy (well, maybe), overweight, etc. In fact, I am personally of the opinion that our Renee looked a thousand percent more appealing 30 pounds heavier than she did in the filmatic remake of the Broadway musical Chicago.

Secondly. Our friend Bridget is only of average intelligence. HARDLY!! I don't know about you, but I had to read the novel with a dictionary at my side. Her vocabulary falls only slightly short of making a Harvard professor blush and I don't mean the newly arrived Chinese Nuclear Quantum Chemical Engineering with a Partridge in a Pear Tree Physics professor either. She spells better than at least one well known Vice-President of the United States and is far more eloquent than our last Commander-in-Chief (metaphorically speaking of course.)

Now, if she looked like Margaret Thatcher, Hillary Clinton, Madeline Albright or Janet Reno, than it really wouldn't make a bit of difference how intelligent or witty she was. However, she doesn't. She looks like the woman who stole Tom Cruise’s heart in Jerry McGuire and that, complemented by her proven intelligence, makes for a killer combination.

How can I feel sorry for her now? I don't look like Renee Zellwegger. Hell, Bridget Jones is far smarter than I so what do I have to look forward to? Here is where the greatest lie that entraps my fellow women comes into play. If life were based on a pink book, we would all be able to find top-notch jobs, tell off sexist, daft, egocentric aggrandized versions of Hugh Grant, and float away to the embrace of highly respected, wealthy, romantic barristers with hearts of gold resembling Colin Firth. Poor, poor Bridget. It must have been terrible to be forced to choose between the two. The last time I had two men fighting over me was when I taught preschool. I was 22 and they were 4. Sadly, due to the immense difference in age and interests (I liked drinking alcohol and going out late at night, they had bedtimes before prime time viewing ended and were only allowed caffeine on the weekends), I was unable to take either up on their offer of unconditional love and half of their cookies at lunchtime.

I guess what it boils down to in the end is that no matter how tragic life may seem for the women in the pink books, they always come out on top. Maybe the authors are just being optimistic, or maybe they are just setting up a sequel which will ensure that their vast empire of "female literature" will remain intact and the hard earned cash of millions of single women who are under the false impression that, they too, have a chance at true love will keep flowing in.

Another theory is that the authors feel guilty for getting our hopes up and write sequels to knock our heroine down and level the playing field a little. Who am I kidding, the sequels have happy endings as well. Maybe the whole reason I am writing this is because I am an embittered, cynical dramatist who thinks the whole world is conspiring against me. Maybe, but, then again, maybe not.

So all you Bridget Jones’/Prada wearing devils/shopaholics out there – your myth has been debunked.

- Pokey