I don’t mean that men are things. They’re not. They’re fully functioning human beings (at least most of the time). I even kind of like them quite a bit. My best friend is a man. My brother is probably one of the best men I’ve ever met. It’s a good time. But lately I’ve been thinking that the prospect of getting a man is rather tiresome.
It seems that in the time that Jane Austen was writing I would have had it a lot easier. I’m a fairly good prospect in her termsa and I could have done well. I could have a nice husband, a nice home (maybe two), and some cute little children. I may live in London and wafting through the whims of society or amidst the beauty of the country.
Either way, I have to believe it would have been a lot easier to find someone who wants to love me. Maybe it wouldn’t be real love. Who knows. Maybe I would actually find my Mr. Darcy.
At the moment, I just hope that my Mr. Right Now can see me as his Elizabeth Bennet.
