Frills

Over the weekend I stopped in at a second-hand book store. I glanced at the big display table just inside the front door, and was confronted by the genre of chick lit in all its pastel-tinted glory.


The dozen or so chick lit books were all various shades of pink, decorated with some level of floral patterns, and prominently featuring images of a) shoes, b) shopping bags or c) shoes and shopping bags. Sweet merciful crap, I thought. Feminism really is dead.


After forty years of women's rights, burning bras, smashing through the glass ceiling and overcoming the oppression of the patriarchal hegemony, it seems that when the average woman sits down to read, she wants a pink, flower-strewn book about shoes and shopping.


I suspect that Gloria Steinem might want a refund on her life's work.