Mrs. Darcy

I wish it was 1890 and I was in a Henry James novel. I could have puffy skirts and demurely fan myself while eying my future husband across the room. I could carry a monocle since it is unseemly for ladies to wear spectacles in polite society. I could have lace gloves and dainty shoes and a personal maid who would help me dress and do my hair. Perhaps I'd meet a man who I detested but secretly grew to love. I could be swept away and live in splendour, while he kisses my face by candlelight. Maybe life would be easy.