Apparently, it’s extremely difficult to grow up female, and members of the fairer sex can be cruel and unusual in their treatment of each other both in childhood and beyond. How much of a fool am I that I didn’t discover this earlier?

I had difficulty getting into this book, and fought the urge to put it down and never resume reading until around page 300. Following the life of our fictitious narrator, I had difficulty finding something to which I could relate until she hit college age and became a real person. No offense to those of you who are under that age – it’s not your fault that you’re not real people. All I’m saying is that you probably haven’t done anything interesting yet, and it’s doubtful that you ever will. Although beautifully written and doubtlessly meaningful in its own way, I spent most of the novel wondering when topics beyond the vicious dealings of middle-schoolers would be breached.

I was, after persevering, interested to see Atwood’s portrayal of the Feminist Movement from the perspective of one who lived through it, as my feelings towards this political and social force are ambiguous at best. Atwood’s protagonista finds herself threatened by the bra-burning, man-hating, mullet-sporting rabble that zealously lead the way, although she feels guilty for ignoring the call to sisterhood. She feels she is not worthy to join the cause because she is stubbornly heterosexual, unforgivably fond of men, and a mother. Although I would be remiss in ignoring or scoffing at those who changed my world for the better, I don’t think I would have had the requisite anger, courage, and leg hair to promote change had I been alive at that time.