In the lull and laziness of my family beach vacation last week, I was in my usual voracious reader mode. I tackled a great classic because I feel that everyone should have a grasp on some truly genius old literature, a witty best-seller recommended by Anderson Cooper because I want to slip it into conversation the night we meet, compelling him to have no choice but be straight and fall in love with me since our reading habits are so in tune, and FINALLY...Fifty Shades of Grey because I needed to see what all the damn fuss was about. I gotta say that I was actually a little embarrassed to be reading the thing. Every time I heard some horny old lady talk about it at the hair dressers or my horny best friend blush over the fictional sex addict, I felt a sense of superiority in that I hadn't read it...and yet secretly I was dying to join their smutty world. And so on an undisclosed beach in North Carolina, with my visor pulled over my eyes and 50 Shades downloaded on my Nook so no one could identify a cover, I started.
Now I don't describe myself as a prude...not even close... but this book really rubbed me the wrong way...sexual innuendo absolutely included. First and foremost, this book is TERRIBLY written. I would love to purchase that woman a better thesaurus with an instruction manual outlining, in cave man English and a few subliminal messages, how to use it. (Find word. See more word. Stop writing. Forever.) She also attempts to recreate how hip, young Seattleites might talk when in reality every character reads like the same 73 year old woman from Surrey. I don't THINK I'm a literature snob, but I only read well-written books. This isn't necessarily by chance, but more just through good judgement. For example, if you're in line at the grocery store and you see a book with the cover featuring a bare-chested Fabio with hair longer and blonder than your own, I would suggest skipping over that one and opting for something on the Pulitzer Prize list. Hell, consult Oprah if you must. I once accidentally skimmed a Lauren Conrad novel in a Barnes & Noble and lost 13% of my brain cells and could only speak with a valley girl accent for the next 48 hours. Poorly written books are no joke and should be banned.
With this said, the book sort of mind-ninja'd me somehow. Christian Grey seeped into my consciousness without me realizing and suddenly I couldn't tell the difference between reality and fiction. I went shopping and picked up a card that I thought Christian might find funny. I made mental notes to tell him about pieces of my day. I went to text him wondering why he wasn't listed in my contacts ...oh yes. BECAUSE HE DOESN'T EXIST. I was mortified that such a shitty book could actually affect me. I was also mortified that I was highly disappointed to come back to reality.
But no, Christian Grey is not real because he lives among the pages of a novel written by a kinky old bat. And the brass tacks fact is that if Christian Grey WERE real, I don't think I'd actually be into him. I don't know...call me old fashioned, but if a dude shows up at my house unannounced without me previously giving him my address and then proceeds to smack me and stick metal balls up my beaver, I'm sorry but I'd be running...no wait...SPRINTING for the hills. Probably even beyond the hills. No guy is hot enough to stick around for that crap, it's not hot. It's not even kinky. It's DEMEANING. Sure Ana battles with "the right thing to do", but honestly, the right thing to do is have a little respect for yourself and move on. In math terms, anything times zero always equals zero. No exceptions. In man terms, ostentatiously rich, power hungry, emotionally unavailable men who get off with you on your knees avoiding eye contact, always equals douchebag. No exceptions.
Despite all my qualms with the mindless protagonist, I know I have to read the second one. I can't just leave her hangin', especially in such a fragile state! Not to mention since I'm a single, unemployed woman with one friend to my name in a 50 mile radius, I'm obviously not gettin' any myself. Might as well read someone else's tedious description of their fictitious canoodlings. And maybe on my way to the library to reserve the next installment, I'll pick up a few hundred cats as well.
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