Be true to thyself, avoid fluff fiction

Everyone knows that if a woman remains true to herself she will get what she needs -- especially in the bookstore -- unless you let a new trend in books define what you need. Let's be honest. Most women want a wealthy, attractive man to bond to, career success, weight loss and to live happily ever after. Right? Well, yes, if you listen to the moral undercurrents of today's post-feminist fiction.

Oddly, the worst perpetuator of this post-feminist, cliche-romance literature are British women: Anna Maxted's Running in Heels, Jane Green's of Jemima J, and the newer Mr. Maybe, written by the equally guilty Sophie Kinsella, also author of Confessions of a Shopaholic.

But these three merely follow in the footsteps of Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones' Diary, and its sequel -- Maxted, Green, and Kinsella capitalize on the various insecurities Fielding's books pre-establish as tres aujourd'hui. If there is an effort to be tongue in cheek, Green falls flat (or should I say fat) and Kinsella has established such a pathetic premise that, try as she might, none of the irony that would save this book is recognizable.

Being single, excessive spending on oneself, drinking, being over-weight, and dating the wrong men are the new indulgences, which women may now -- out from under the thumb of Gloria Steinam -- allow themselves to fall victim to. I wonder if this is a good thing.

The most disturbing is Green's Jemima J. Here is the story of an obese girl, who is motivated to lose excessive amounts of weight quickly to impress the men out of her reach. She gets the guy she wants, in the end, when she has gone down to a size 8. The reader should be happy for Jemima (who even trades in her frumpy name for the more glamorous "JJ"). We are meant to identify with her inner woman, as if we too cry "Help, help, there is a skinny woman in me trying to get out!"

Of all the cliches, this is one of the most harmful. JJ's ultimate goal, however, goes beyond being thin -- it is finding a man, who will provide for and take care of her. The provision being that she (as the famous Bridget also exemplifies) must continue to display those character traits which she possessed when she was overweight -- endearing and quirky. Of course, he will love her regardless of her weight, class, education, career, cooking and budget management skills. Right? He fell in love with her in the first place because she was different, colorful, human even. Is it a rare occurrence for a man to love his woman for being a farting, burping, urinating, excitable, simple, human being?

Although these protagonists have competition for their men, it is never someone with more realistic, down to earth qualities than them. There is no one more human, and that is why we are supposed to identify with them. We are supposed to think, "That character is like me, I do not to wax my armpits either and I also stain brand new white shirts with cranberry juice!"

Their competitors are impossibly thin, rich, and well dressed. The protagonists are depicted as feeling demeaned by other women's status -- bags, jewelry, accent, and bearing. The readers have to draw impossible comparisons between themselves and perfection, which ultimately leads them to distrust their men, themselves, and their parents. This is not healthy. No wonder they flounder in insecurities.

I will never deny all this fuss is grounded in a real dilemma. Young women today are faced with the many things we know we are faced with such as, high self-expectations and generations of sweet women we have to outdo. Nor will I deny that I do exactly the same self-deprecating things as these characters do -- when I am sad, I buy jeans that are twice as expensive as they should be. But is not that what you expected from an over-educated twenty-one-year-old? Even as an intelligent and voracious woman I am compared to and I personally hold my self to these silly, yet superficial standards.

The truth of the matter is that I am living through what these women write about. I do not need it lauded in "literature." I am not ashamed, but I must admit that this weak behavior does fall far below the standard for womanhood I am trying to establish. And it certainly should not be as praised as one of Martha Stewart's latest cookie recipe.

Maybe, I should be laughing about it. Real laughter, not the hysterical, celebratory laughter these books induce. If I were laughing the kind of self-directed laughter that Nietzsche says makes us ubermensch (or uberfrauleins) this situation would be bearable. But that takes a sagacity one can only glean from worldliness and philosophy, things I will never find if I keep buying these fluffy books. Next time I hit the Penn bookstore, I will remain true to myself and buy something that counts.

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