Feeling our pain
The other women’s stories play just as strained — the dramatic equivalent of, say, pushing cauliflower through a colander: There’s Kirin deciding to order a sexy motorcycle outfit to impress her hubby. (Her pal Jenn just so happens to have the Sexy Motorcyle Outfit Catalog just lying around.) There’s ”conflicted wife” (a.k.a. cheating tramp) Jamie, in three-inch heels, shedding tears, alone (save for a couple of strategically placed cameramen), while checking out the rental apartment that might just signal the end of her marriage. (It’s okay, Jamie, vertical blinds make me want to sob, too.) There’s even the blush-worthy book-club meetings themselves, which don’t have time for discussions of literature but do work in such insightful questions as ”If you sit on his lap and pull your skirt up at the end of the day, would he approach that with enjoyment?”
Yes, that sound you hear is the sorrowful wail of the late Jane Austen.
Oh, do we know that sound well! Though we think Jane would then have written a very funny book about these people.
