So unfortunate . . . I really, really wanted to like this book. Like many women in their 30s, I was enamored with Molly Ringwald (in a girl-crush, that's who I want to be sort of way) throughout high school. So when I happened upon this book in my local library, I immediately grabbed it. Though I was hoping for an autobiography, I must say that when I read the flap I was intrigued. Molly Ringwald was going to give me advice. How cool is that? And she's going to help me get my "pretty back" (ok, I never knew I lost my "pretty" but if I needed to retrieve it, I was glad that it was Molly who was going to help me find it).
Then I read the book. Which, as I stated above, was unfortunate. Because I no longer felt like I needed to "get my pretty back". I more or less felt that I needed to get the last 20 or so years of my life back. You see, I haven't ever made a movie; lived in France; fallen in love with a man several years my junior who was dating my friend; and/or had his children. I'm not inclined to throw dinner parties on the rooftop garden of my New York apartment (so creating the perfect cheese plate is a lost art to me) or go on wine buying "binges". I don't care how to tie a Hermes scarf because I can't afford one. Nor do I want to hear someone espousing the benefits of peels and injectable fillers. Perhaps, my life has not been as exciting as I've led myself to believe. Or, perhaps, this book is not as great as the editors copy led me to believe. I honestly didn't know that a book could give me low self-esteem. Though now she is perfectly poised to write a follow up tome on "How to Get the Dignity Back".
To say that this book left me cold would be an understatement. While I'm not apposed to self-help books and am all for personal betterment, this book failed in both categories. The advice was trite and lacking in depth, emotion and, most shockingly, usefulness. It came off as self-indulgent fluff targeted at a select few. (Most likely, those who've never seen the inside of a Target.)