This book has all of the fuzzy, pink, glittery frills of the standard chick-lit novel- the feminine musing of superficial concerns, the goofball friends, the fairytale references, those wicked sabatuerettes of progress who bring out those ugly feelings of competition, the wrong Mr. Right, and the oh-so-right Mr. Wrong, and the general climate of "I wasn't looking for this, but I found it anyway" all play "by the book" that is the over arching methodology of this genre.
Though, this book has something more; beyond the fuzzy pinkness, is a recurring theme of expletives, the need to urinate at inconvenient times, drunken disorderlyness, more expletives, infidelity, and the "iron clad virgin" -that is the protagonist- which rather makes a mockery of resistance, while most chick lit novels skirt around the issue with holier-than-though subtexts. It could be its autobiographical nature, that avoids the vapidity of your average chick-lit novel, OR it could be the periodical philosophical introspection that interlude the story's progression, or it could be both? I think it is both.
I love this book, I enjoyed it immensely- all of the "characters" aroused a subtle reminder to find meaning in everyday life. AND...the moral of the story? Ironically is, -"No one can save you, but yourself, and don't you forget it!" I love this book, I love it most of all because it doesn't expect women to just be satisfied with glittery, pinkness. Lena Mikado- if you please, lead the rainbow parade of woman pride, into the turquoise waters, so that we can all find our ocean!