I don’t watch “Inside Amy Schumer” (although maybe now I’ll start) or much standup, so the first time I encountered Jessi Klein was via her phenomenally funny and thoughtful essay about why she hates bathing, which appeared in The New Yorker a few months ago. I was thrilled to see that essay included in her new collection, YOU’LL GROW OUT OF IT, along with nearly two dozen other pieces that perfectly achieve the tricky balance between substance and hilarity.

Klein, who has also written for “Saturday Night Live,” among other programs, writes a brand of comedy that’s particularly down-to-earth and accessible, one that positions herself most often as the butt of her own jokes. This approach, which is a refreshing alternative to a more mean-spirited, outward-facing comedy, is probably especially appealing to female readers, who may feel in reading Klein’s essays that they’re sitting down for a good gabfest with their funniest girlfriend.

"Klein is at her funniest when she writes about topics and experiences that will resonate with a number of readers... [T]he underlying narrative of Klein’s success...will likely be inspiring to many young women who dream of making their living by being funny."

Klein is at her funniest when she writes about topics and experiences that will resonate with a number of readers, from shopping for lingerie or searching for a wedding dress to attending barre fitness classes or hoping to transform one’s life by means of a few strategic purchases from Anthropologie. She writes with great humor and sympathy about her realization that she’s never going to grow out of being a tomboy (“dressing like Groucho for Halloween when you’re ten is different from dressing like Groucho as a consistent style choice when you’re thirty”) or that she’s unquestionably a “wolf” rather than a “poodle” (“Poodles always wear matching bras and underwear…. Wolves usually own two bras total, and neither of them matches their tattered old Gap underwear”).

She also writes with cringe-inducing humor about her romantic relationships, from letting go (kind of) of the long-time boyfriend who broke her heart to dating a “cad” to realizing that she has a “type” --- one that bears no resemblance to the man she eventually marries. Here, as elsewhere, Klein’s often shockingly personal anecdotes eventually overlap with a sort of cultural or feminist commentary, as when she talks about what watching porn does to men’s expectations regarding real-life sex or when she reflects on what it means for women to grow up (“When I looked at what it would mean to become a woman --- one of those standard grown-up ladies, like the ones from commercials for gum or soda or shampoo --- it all seemed to involve shrinking rather than growing”).

Less completely successful are Klein’s later essays, the ones that focus on her life since becoming a successful comedy writer and comic. Although she herself pokes fun of the phenomenon, it’s hard to find much genuine humor in the foibles of the fabulously wealthy people at the Post Ranch Inn in Big Sur or the Mirapal Spa in Arizona. Likewise, although any woman who has had a baby will likely find some measure of sympathy for Klein’s attempts to find a red carpet–worthy dress to wear for the Emmys 12 weeks postpartum, these later essays lack some of the relatability and universality that characterize the other pieces.

Certainly, however, the underlying narrative of Klein’s success --- one in which she overcame her father’s admonitions to always take the less risky (and therefore more boring) route, one in which she realized that she wanted to be creative, not just provide administrative support for creative people --- will likely be inspiring to many young women who dream of making their living by being funny.