If you thought the movies were good, ooooh boy are you in for a treat. I’ve always been a huge fan of the Bridget Jones movies, especially when there’s nothing better to do with my evening. Bridget is such a total ‘cock-up’ and yet so loveable, her friends are all strong but crazy characters, and then there’s Mr. Darcy. Colin Firth. Cue collective sigh from women worldwide (I know one of my friends just put her hand to her chest and crooned “Be still, my beating heart”). So really, it’s an all-in-all comically good time. Everyone here knows that books are better, so it’s safe to say this one is a guaranteed hit!
Bridget is thirty now and while most of her friends are happily married, she’s desperately single. She’s a touch on the chubby side and has an aching crush on her womanizing boss, Daniel Cleaver. Her goals, recorded in the diary, are to lose weight, gain a boyfriend, and achieve inner poise. Let’s just say the road to achieving these goals is less than smooth…
For those of you that have seen the movies more than once, the book will seem a little odd because *sadly* Mark Darcy doesn’t make too many appearances until the very end. Daniel Cleaver however, dominates more than half of the book. The story is wittily told in diary format, which I love, from Bridget’s point of view. Her scattered train of thought and starkly hilarious commentary about men, her parents, her friends, and herself is portrayed through an entire year in her diary. The funny part is we never actually see Bridget evolve or gain some self-realization. She tries very hard, but only manages to be “aloof, unavailable ice queen” for a few precious hours, after which temptation (or a cigarette) sucks her back into the norm.
Her antics of battling with weight and cellulite are candid and make you giggle no matter what, especially when she’s performing her rituals seconds before a big date. As Bridget and her friends explore how men are all “emotional fuckwits” and their standard behaviour is “emotional fuckwittage”, you can’t help but get pseudo-drunk with indignant feminism and say “Yeah!” right along with them. I shuddered all too appropriately when Bridget logged her thoughts about her mom, who had decided to separate from her dad and gad about town with various men–all ridiculous characters. Mrs. Jones’ new-found power over the male sex was amusing and terrifying all at once, especially since Bridget was still struggling to get just the *one* man.
The diary may be a collection of confused ramblings, as my book jacket suggests, but they’re the best and wittiest confused ramblings I’ve ever read. You don’t have to be single, British, or thirty to connect with and thoroughly enjoy Bridget’s diary. It’s social commentary at it’s finest. Heck, if my sociology book broke society down into Smug Marrieds, Emotional Fuckwits, quests for Inner Poise, and of course, how to battle acidic hangovers at your parents’ turkey-curry buffets, studying would have been considerably more enjoyable.