I thought there was a law that all chick lit needed to be set in New York or London, with occasional special dispensation for short trips to Ireland. When I saw that this book was set in my home state of Colorado, I couldn't resist it.
I kinda wish I had, as it was fairly trashy, and somewhat depressing. This part from Avery's story was indicative of what made me sad about this book:
. . . I tried to talk to him about my work, my dreams, my day, he would look so bored and uninterested that I would cut my story short. After a while, I rarely talked at all. How had I managed to marry such a stranger?
In the first few dates you have all your stories to share, all your jokes to tell. You see movies you don't want to see and laugh at jokes that aren't funny. Then, a few dates down the road, you have sex, and it's good, and you wonder if this could be love. The next dates have a lot of sex and not so much talking, so you don't notice that it's because you don't particularly have much to say to each other. You're grateful someone finds you attractive and wants to spend time with you. You mistake your gratitude for love.
No, I'm not a prude, and no, I don't expect the whole world to "wait" to have sex. But if they did wait just a little more than they are now, there'd be less people walking around feeling exactly what she describes here. My husband and I will celebrate 15 years of marriage in August (2006), and we still really like being around each other. A lot. This picture she paints of marriage just makes me sad.