In my thankless quest for enlightenment, I was reading GQ at the office today, and was rather dismayed to see an article on how the popularity of chick lit in America reflected the sad state of the minds of American women.

Besides snottily retorting that most media in America reflects the sad state of the minds of American men (particularly the preceding article in GQ about how to approach the topic of anal sex with your girlfriend) I half wished that the article was in Cosmo instead, where maybe some women would actually read it. I don't have a problem with someone preferring Confessions of a Shopaholic over... ??? Portnoy's Complaint?

That's where the problem is. It's not chick lit. It's the absence of another example with which to define chick lit against, besides boy books. Maybe I just don't know enough, and if I read Nell Freudenbuger I'll feel better about the world.

I've read so many fucking books about boys coming of age, exploring their sexuality, trotting off into the world on some adventure or another, and for girls it's like The Bell Jar, or Anne Frank, choose one. And don't give me any Anne of Green Gables shit because I hated that book.

I've never actually read Bridget Jones's Diary, or the Nanny Diaries, or The Devil Wears Prada. Two years ago The Economist ran an article called "The Bridget Jones Economy" that frightened the shit out of me because it was the first time I saw my future as a well-defined target market. It seems if you combine dating stories, yoga, a love/hate relationship with chocolate, a gay best friend, a dildo, a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes and psychotherapy you basically have a winning piece of media. Bonus points if it is set in Manhattan and one of the protaganists works in the Conde Nast building.

And GQ sucks but they're not the first people to point out how pathetic that is.