Beautiful Mess

I read this comment on a message board today; books were being discussed:

I always refer to "the fat, lonely secretary-archetype". You know, early 30's, her whole life is her near-bottom rung job that she power trips with. Pretends to convince herself she is happy being totally alone in her two bedroom flat on the outskirts of downtown; loves her cat. They also read absolute garbage literature. The whole legion of them making up a large part of that female readership demographic that gluts Borders with all that shick-lit.

This made me laugh, and also cringe. Because I can so picture this person, and I occasionally worry that I'm becoming her. I go to the gym. I like my job. (But sometimes there are power trips). I have a two-bedroom (granted, its a house), I WOULD have a cat, were I not allergic. I'll soon be in my early 30s. And The Devil Wears Prada is downstairs on my living room sofa--plus I just read a LaVyrle Spencer book that was absolute dreck. In fact, I've been craving ridiculous chick lit lately.

But . . . I don't pretend to convince myself I'm happy. And sometimes I really am.