I finally picked up a copy of Confessions of a Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella, mostly so I could see the movie. Which sounds kind of lame, but I like to read the book before I see an adaptation. Just me.
Let me just say this: painful.
That’s what it was for me. It starts out as a fun little story about Becky Bloomwood a woman with a mediocre job as a finance journalist with an obsession for anything carrying a price tag. Harmless, right? I mean, come on, it’s fiction. It’s not like it’s real or anything.
But from my squirming reactions, you’d think it was. It was so painful to see Ms. Bloomwood make purchase after purchase with maxed out credit cards. Maybe I’m a little crazy, but I grew-up in a family that operated debt-free and potential purchases were always met with the question, “Do you really need that?” My husband and I also live debt-free, so to think of the real-life ramifications of owing thousands of dollars to credit card companies for things you don’t need is just a bit unnerving.
Other than the obvious financial frivoliousity, which is noted in the book’s tagline “Going broke was never this much fun,” Confessions of a Shopaholic meets the standards of chick lit. Girl has problem, girl meets boy, girl goes through a series of trials, boy and girl hook-up, everything ends happy.
I do wish that there were a few more confessions other than the heroines shopping woes, say her onslaught of lies? Really, is there no responsibility left even in fiction? Shouldn’t she have to “man-up,” so to speak, and face her friends and family with the truth?
I know it’s fiction, but geez can’t we get some resolution past the inevitable boy-meets-girl happy ending?
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