There is nothing natural about being a grown woman. It’s a constant, mysterious process. Even those of us who profess not to give a shit live in a state of vigilance. Stray hairs must be plucked or waxed or shaved into oblivion. Our boobs must be harnessed. Do our buttocks have a pleasing shape? Is our lipstick the most flattering shade for our skin tone? How many things are we fucking up without even realizing it?
At 30 she decides she’s tired of dating immature man-boys and that to attract a Grown Man she needs to give up her tom-man ways and start acting like a Grown Woman. “But when I looked at what it would mean to become a woman—one of those standard grown-up ladies, like the ones from commercials for gum or soda or shampoo—it all seemed to involve shrinking rather than growing.”Yes! I thought as I read this. I totally agree! Let’s discuss this more! But the essay ends there.
But the underlying feature of the book as a whole is laziness, as though Klein squeezed in writing the chapters between her many other responsibilities. The riffs alternate with more personal stories about bad boyfriends, trips to spas, and the agonies of waiting for a marriage proposal and or a pregnancy. These are arranged according to no particular logic: the infertility piece, for instance, is completely devoid of suspense because the essay immediately before it is called “Get the Epidural” and the one before that is, in part, about breast pumping at the Emmys. (This is, it must be said, close to the ultimate in wolfishness.) I so wish someone, either Klein or her editor, had put more care into the whole project and let some of those brilliant ideas develop from quick observations to genuine reflections on the state of being a woman. But even for an idea, growing up is hard. v
By Jessi Klein (Grand Central) Reading Thu 7/14, 11 AM Standard Club 320 S. Plymouth 630-355-2665andersonsbookshop.com $40
