Chick lit, chic life

WHY do I subject myself to this? In the words of my very wise, very old (as in 'old soul') daughter, I have just undergone a shamelessly cheesy CHICK LIT moment. As I related to her the highlights of my travails this week as a babyboomer late bloomer, narrating a major disappointment that had actually driven me close to tears, all I got were guffaws and snorts and a classic rolling of the eyeballs with a declaration that my life seemed to be one very long chick lit novel now. She said my recent story was a certified classic. And so very very funny (not to me it wasn't!). Forget the tragic and scandalous deeds of the past. Forget the close-to-suicidal heartaches and tearing of hair and beating of breast in agony that marked the '80s and the 90's. My so called escapades of the 21st century have been relegated to that: chick lit. Classic chick lit. Think Bridget Jones and that shallow headed Shopaholic girl. Or movies with Anne Hathaway, Lindsay Lohan or - heaven forbid - Hillary Duff in them! And so we ended up laughing our hearts out in the car yesterday at the absurdity and shallowness of it all, in a priceless mother-daughter bonding moment.

As to the details of this chick lit episode, my dear readers, it is much too embarrassing and shallow to immortalize in cyberspace. Suffice it to say the subject has been banished to outer space along with antagonists from my 20th century soap-operatic life. Details are in a handwritten, personal diary kept in the drawer of my bedside table, to be read only upon my ...ahem...passing. Now, isn't that classic chick lit.