I recently made a horrifying discovery that I’m not quite over yet. While thinking of myself in the abstract, I wondered what Jane Austen heroine I most closely resembled. This was not a Facebook quiz, nor was it prompted by Cosmo. I just read a lot and tend to identify with various characters. I was mildly hoping to think I was like Elizabeth Bennet with a snappy answer to snide remarks. I might resemble a Margaret Dashwood running away from cranky strangers. I could even maybe see myself as a highly repressed Lydia Bennet, waiting for my trampy side to come out for a year-long spin. But I figured out who I most closely resemble: Fanny Price. I shrieked after this realization, knowing full well that Fanny doesn’t shriek. It didn’t help.
It suddenly made sense why I always wanted to kick her ass. Her weak way of dealing with bossy people, her reluctance to change her routine, her weepy attachments to stupid things all are a reflection of me. I’d like to say that at least I can talk with strangers without breaking down…most of the time. To assuage this trauma, I reminded myself that 31 is my year of standing up for myself. I resolved not to read Mansfield Park for at least twelve months and I shrieked again for good measure. Mrs. Norris just better watch out, I’m on an adventure.
An Erinku:
stapler
tipped sideways
does not
work as well.
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