Last summer, I stopped dead in my tracks in a bookstore. I was staring at a bright pink stand with the title "chick lit" written in flowing, disgustingly frilly white lettering.
The section was filled with -- well, "chick lit," I suppose -- books with pretty, decorative covers with pictures of high-heeled shoes, handbags and the occasional martini glass.
I stared at these books, wondering when exactly the term "chick lit" not only became acceptable, but was embraced by the young, educated women who must be buying Shopaholic Ties the Knot.
If you ask me, the frenzy started with 2003's The Devil Wears Prada, the hysterically funny and ruthlessly sarcastic best-selling book by Lauren Weisberger. Young women snapped up copies when it came out, and ecstatic publishers were looking to capitalize on the market.
The problem is, nothing is quite like the original.
"The Devil Wears Prada" is the fictional story of 23-year-old Andrea Sachs, who is fresh out of college and ready to take on New York City's publishing world. Her dream is to write for The New Yorker, but she's quickly told that writers are a dime a dozen.
So when Andrea somehow manages to land a job at a fashion magazine as the junior assistant to editor-in-chief Miranda Priestly, it seems like a stroke of luck. But this is hardly the case.
In case you haven't guessed by now, Miranda Priestly would be that Prada-wearing Satan. Her world is one of high fashion and high maintenance. Miranda does not ask -- she demands. And in some of the most withering dialogue I've ever read, she reduces her staff and the rest of the world into sobbing, subservient children.
Andrea's job, of course, is a nightmare. Miranda sends her racing all over New York on pointless errands, often with little or no instructions (on purpose, of course).
Andrea is faced with insane and impossible tasks, like nabbing unreleased copies of the latest Harry Potter books to send to Miranda's children in Paris, scouring the East Side for a vintage dresser Miranda "might" want, serving Miranda coffee at a precise temperature and sorting through thousands of dollars of clothing to send to the dry cleaner. There is no escape -- Miranda screeches for "Ahn-dre-ah" (as she pronounces it).
There's only one thing that keeps Andrea going. If she can last one year without getting fired (no small feat), Miranda will use her contacts to get her a job anywhere -- including a job at The New Yorker.
That's the predicament Andrea finds herself in, and as she gets increasingly sucked into a world of beautiful people and non-fat lattes, she begins to lose herself and the close relationships she has with her family, her best friend Lily and her boyfriend Alex.
I felt Andrea's frustration as she tries to make it through her year of servitude without ruining her personal life. Weisberger creates a great sub-plot with the increasing distance between Andrea and Alex, as well as Lily's growing drinking problem.
The ending is somewhat predictable, and the real fun lies in Miranda's insane demands.
This book was a fast and funny read, so I think I'll ignore what's in the pretty "chick lit" section and wait for the movie version of The Devil Wears Prada -- with Meryl Streep as Miranda. I guess I can always wear high heels to the movie theater.
