Book review: "The Cinderella Pact"

"The Cinderella Pact." By Sarah Strohmeyer. Dutton. $24.95. 290 pages.

Earlier this month I wrote an essay in which I mentioned that September 11, 2001, changed my life in two ways — I can no longer watch horror movies, and I became a hardcore news junkie (whereas before I was just a casual user, you know).

I lied.

September 11 changed a third thing in my life too. It is just isn't as cool, so I only talk about it with that inner circle of female friends who feel the same way. Before that tragic day, I read a lot of serious, depressing literature. After it, I found comfort in chick lit.

Ok, there, I said it. I read chick lit. Not as much as I used to, but sometimes, just like you binge on chocolate or margaritas, sometime a chick lit binge is needed, sometimes for no reason at all.

So last night, despite almost falling asleep while watching "24" at 10 p.m. (I know, how is that possible? But that's how tired I was.), I opened up "The Cinderella Pact," intending to read just a few pages. At 3 a.m., now on a sugary high from the saccharine content, I put down the book, finished.

As I finally fell asleep, I thought to myself that compared to some of the recent chick lit that has crossed my path, "The Cinderella Pact" was refreshingly clever. But when I woke up this morning, once again sober and determined to avoid sugar at all costs (my next book is an almanac, 'kay?), I was really angry at the book, angry at its nonsensical plot, unrealistic romance, fairytale ending and two inch cream cheese frosting.

"The Cinderella Pact" is the tale of three overweight friends who make a pact that this time they will really lose the weight they have been trying to lose for years with little success. They plan to meet in six months, newly slender, and go on a shopping spree. Their weight-loss plan is based on the advice of a famous British columnist in a women's magazine. The only problem? The columnist is really the invention of one of the friends, who is an under-appreciated assistant editor at said magazine.

Ok, off the top of your head, name a columnist for a women's magazine, like Glamour or Cosmopolitan.

My point exactly.

British, stylish, mysterious or not, there is no way a columnist that no one has ever seen in person would become a world-wide celebrity. Especially, as in the case in this book, if her trademark fashion item were pink cowboy boots covered with rhinestones.

While reading the book, I bought into the whole preposterous set-up (and yes, there is an evil step-editor, a Prince Charming, a fairy godmother and a ball), just as when cramming one's face full of coconut cake, it's hard to stop. But then afterwards you realize that the coconut cake wasn't really that good and why in the hell did you eat it?

I suppose I am not the target audience of the book. I suspect it is geared towards women who care less about fashion than me, those women who love Sex and the City but have no idea whom Carrie is wearing in any episode, not to mention the fact that they would never, ever spend upwards of $400 on shoes. When the three friends finally do lose the weight, they go on a shopping spree and Ann Taylor and Talbot's. Seriously. If I had just lost 40-50 pounds, even if I was still a size 14, I would want to buy something more fun than professional business attire.

The only redeemable aspect of "The Cinderella Pact" is the way in which it treats weight loss. As each of the three friends drops pounds — one through surgery, one through a personal trainer, one through healthy eating and exercise — their lives change, but not in the ways they expect. As overweight women, they discover, they had blamed all their problems on their excess pounds. When those pounds are no longer there (in a realistic manner, I should note, which is another plus — no one goes from being old Oprah to new Oprah in six months), the women realize that their problems are still around. (Of course, they all resolve themselves by the end of the book, but you wouldn't expect less, would you?)

In short, do not be fooled by the photo of a diamond-encrusted Christian Louboutin shoe on the cover. This book is a pink cowboy boot with cheap rhinestones.