Confessions of a Jane Austen Junkie

I have a Pride and Prejudice fantasy and it only brings me heartache. It involves me and my fine eyes and a tall, dark jerk that none of my friends like. I don’t even like him.

When I was thirteen and reading Pride and Prejudice for the first time, the high school librarian in my rural hometown told me she thought Jane Austen was boring. "How can you read that stuff?" she asked me, but I was too busy imprinting the story to answer: smart, pretty-when-you-talk-to-her girl meets standoffish, handsome-when-he-relaxes guy. Then, they misunderstand each other, which leads to hate, and then somehow, the two are won over by the improbable chemistry between them. The book doesn’t even have a real ending. Just a few send-off letters to let the reader know everything went well. Even Jane knew nothing worked out that neatly in real life.

Now, while I am down on Pride and Prejudice at the moment, I do want to recognize J.A.’s gift for dialogue and her sharp eye for our everyday cruelties. I think her Mansfield Park is a fascinating musing on what roles and powers were available to women in English society at during the early part of the 1800’s. That said, I would like to return to the poisoning of centuries of women with romantic lies. There’s a watershed of young women writing their version of pride and prejudice. Bridget Jones is just the latest knock-off Elizabeth Bennett. Go to any chain bookstore; they might as well have a subsection, "Pride and Prejudice Derivatives."

So I’m scarred, but I’m a P&P survivor. I know I’m not alone, though it can be rough sometimes. No matter where I live, I manage to find a Mr. Darcy. I even dated one for awhile. And let me tell you, no happy ending there. I like to think as I age, I’ve acquired an ability to sniff out the traces of these crushes and to kill them. Now when I see brown-eyes and a sardonic smile, I imagine shark-infested waters. (Remember Eliza’s little problem with prejudice?) I try to recognize that Mr. Darcy is mean and wouldn’t kiss me in public. Would think I’m fat. Would cheat. Give Mr. Darcy a sunny morning, a warm cat, and breakfast in bed, and he still wouldn’t be happy. He gets bored easily. He does impressions. He doesn’t let himself need anyone. He doesn’t like to be needed. He’s all too rational.

This is where my P& P fantasy catches up with me. I threw a big bash a few weeks ago and, after drinking margaritas from hell (or heaven, I suppose), I lost time. I kissed everyone left at my party. Really kissed. Tongue and everything according to eyewitness (mouthwitnesses?). I need to get out more. If I did, stuff like this would not build up. I’ve been joking with Carneline for months about wanting to kiss randomly anyone that caught my fancy. Just one kiss. That’s it. Of course, the only time I ever have the drunken will to act on this desire, I remember next to nothing. I remember laughing. Standing too close to Mr. Darcy. That’s it. Apparently, I missed all the good times. I backed Mr. Darcy against a wall, then when distracted by the entry of another man, left Darcy so I could kiss the new man. Yeah. So.

What I’m wondering is why Darcy let me push him against the wall? He’s a big guy. He could’ve easily dodged my advances. He was supposed to have been pretty sober. of course, I’m supposed to not like him. He’s pretentious. He’s cranky. The first few times we hung out involved the two of us throwing drinks at each other. (Nothing worse than leaving a party smelling of Miller Highlife.) The problem is, I don’t know how I really feel about Darcy, because my keep-away vibes have been so strong. I’m a little freaked out that when released from my hang-ups, I lunged for him.

Immediately after my party, but before I was reminded of the little wall episode, I blew off Darcy’s birthday party. I’d had enough party to last me a long time and I was worried he’d think I was interested in him since I’d apparently been really touchy-feely. The funny thing is now that I know I mauled him and then sucked someone else’s tonsils, I feel more free. Though, a little voice wonders what I may have fucked up. The kicker is, my Darcy won’t ever think twice about me and other such peripheral concerns. I’ve written this whole story down and Darcy’s out walking his dog, thinking about the nubile charms of undergraduates, and tinkering with his novel. Damn Jane Austen. Damn her to hell. I know in my heart of hearts that Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett never did get it right. Never got together. Just kept misfiring and hating because they really aren’t suited. They don’t mix. Opposites repel. At least when they’re sober.

--marzipan gypsy

Postscript: I ran into Darcy a little while ago. I had hoped to be all suave and ask him something sly like "Was it good?" Instead, I was totally unprepared. He saw me first and I couldn’t stop from making that "Oh, fuck." expression. A slow grin spread upon his face and I stupidly exclaimed, "I can’t remember anything after 1 A.M.!" Charming, huh?