Please Read This Post With an English Accent

I was recently stuck on a bus for many, many, (many many many) hours, and we chose Sense and Sensibility as one of the movies to get us across the Mojave desert. 

As any literary single girl does at any given stage of life, most especially the single stages of life, I have been contemplating ever since which Jane Austen character I am most in alignment with.

Perhaps, as of late I am Marianne. Feeling like I had my own Willoughby, and was given every indication that there was something happening, but with nothing ever being expressed out loud.  Affection implied, but never confirmed, is the worst sort of puzzle for a lady. 

Except it seems more likely that I was Harriet Smith, from Emma, (or Thai from Clueless- choose who you like!) who was so Clueless that she completely misread every signal from Mr. Elton. 

What? You liked that picture because Emma painted it, not because I was in it? interprets as, What? That picture you liked on Facebook was because of my hat, NOT because of me?...

I am closer to Elinore, who has a hard time expressing and saying what she feels.

In Pride and Prejudice, of the Bennet sisters, while I am one in 5 girls- “I have 5 Daughters!” my father would shout out like Tevia- I can rule out being Lydia. I’m the youngest, but I was never silly.  I remember sitting in the cafeteria my Freshman year in college with a friend who said to me, “I am so boy crazy!! Aren’t you?!?” I just stared at her, mouth agape. 
“...No...” I answered. 

I am no Elizabeth Bennet, however much I may wish to be so. I have wit to spare, but alas, it usually stays bottled up in my head, or only put to paper for 40 or so people to read on said blog. I am not particularly feisty or stubborn. 

I am more Jane Bennet than Elizabeth. More reserved. More shy. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.  One could take my reserved nature for indifference. And perhaps a gentleman would not know that the ever present hope of romance is always lingering near the surface, because I am too cowardly to express or show it. 

“I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness ...” - Edward in Sense and Sensibility

Someone recently told me that they had no clue I had any romantic expectations on our dates. 
(except that we called them dates and we met on a dating website?...) 
My brother-in-law told me that I should have been more bold, more flirty, to which I burst into tears and informed him that if, as it seems, I was going to be alone for the rest of my life, I would appreciate not being told it was all my fault.  Let me blame it on the men, thank you very much.  

I will never be the Charlotte Lucas. I will not settle.

Perhaps I will be Jane herself, who never married, and died at 41. Except she was played in Becoming Jane by Anne Hathaway, which somehow lowers my regard for the author, although she had nothing to do with it.

Thinking of these Victorian ladies makes me think of North and South, which is not a Jane Austen story, but that kiss at the end on the train station bench is worth the 4 hour miniseries, Jane or no Jane. And it stars Brendan Coyle, who also plays Mr. Bates on Downton Abbey, and who doesn’t adore his love story? 

Maybe I’m the Edith of my story...

Oh how I love great BBC Drama.

Yet I digress...

In Sense and Sensibility Marianne says that “A woman of seven and twenty can never hope to feel or inspire affection again.”

And what ever could that mean for a woman about to turn four and thirty...

Hold Onto Your Butts- Samuel L Jackson

Now my dating experiences have run the gamut in ridiculous scenarios.

I’ve been lost in the woods in the middle of the night, been told how potent a fellow is, been told of the gun arsenal one had in his trunk, and been accosted by a French Man.

But tonight was a new one.

I made someone physically ill.

Well, perhaps I didn’t make my date ill.

But, still.

He became physically ill.

On the date.

Mind you, this was a date that I had been looking forward to. We know how rare an entity that is in my life, but I had plans for this date.

Expectations.

The Universe does love to thwart Expectations.

He warned me at the beginning of the evening that he didn’t feel well, that he had thrown up this morning, and his stomach had been a bit upset all day.  But he didn’t want to cancel, he said. He wanted to be there.

In an attempt at levity, I said, “Maybe it was just nervous anticipation of seeing me tonight!” Because truth be told, I had been experiencing that very problem the entire afternoon.

“No,” he said, with no trace of humor in his voice. And as we walked into the movie theater, he excused himself to the restroom...

But I wasn’t discouraged yet. Me and those Expectations had spent some quality time together, and I wasn’t going to let this deter our plans we had painstakingly made.

I had asked close friends for advice, for encouragement, for wisdom before the evening had begun.

My best friend, who is also coincidentally and helpfully a therapist, helped me role-play leading conversation starters.

Another friend said to me, and I quote, “during the part where he's painting her naked on the couch, pop your chest out! Works like a charm.”

Except that we were going to see Jurassic Park, not Titanic, and we couldn’t decide what could be made sexy in the context of Velociraptors, but perhaps, to a straight man, such things are.

Me and my Expectations came walking into that movie theater hand in hand, ready to conquer.

We sat down, my date and I, waiting through the previews. And I could tell he didn’t feel well. This particular fellow always has a twinkle in his eye, and a quick wit. But tonight he was subdued. Quiet.

The movie started. 

The 20^th Anniversary 3D limited engagement re-release of Jurassic Park.

We actually had seen this movie once together, at a summer movie in the park awhile back. He could quote most of the movie, and because I was smitten I found it adorable rather than obnoxious.  Me and my Expectations had remembered that night, and thought this repeat engagement would be a perfect opportunity for something- ANYTHING- to happen.

But about 15 minutes in, he had to excuse himself.

And I sat there alone, with my 3D glasses on.

He finally returned.

Except he left one seat empty between us when he sat down.

He turned to me apologetically and said, “I promise it is better this way… Do you have any gum?”

And that was when I saw the Universe walk in, take my Expectations by the hand, and escort them out of the theater.

He sat and endured it for another 20 minutes or so. I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was fidgety. Uncomfortable.

I tapped his arm across the empty seat, and whispered, “How are you doing?” when it was perfectly obvious that he wasn’t doing well.

“I’m fine,” he said, looking pained. And then, “Actually… I think I’m going to leave. I’m so sorry!”

And that was when I saw the Universe walk in, take my Date by the hand, and escort him out of the theater.

We had met at the theater, due to work constraints, mixed with movie times. And so he went on his not so merry way.

And I sat there. 

Alone. 

With my 3D glasses on.

Jurassic Park is a really good movie. 20 years later, it truly stands the test of time.

But I am telling you, there is absolutely nothing sexy about Velociraptors.

"The City of Light", or, "How I rejected a Frenchman," or "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return."

Paris.

The city of Light.

I was there for 18 hours.

I went to the city and wandered from 4 pm until 1 in the morning.

I never stopped walking, and 48 hours later, 

my legs still throb a bit.

I couldn’t come close to absorbing everything I saw 

in that short time.

I walked through the halls of Notre Dame and was moved to tears.

I rehearsed the entire score of Les Miserable, and pretended to be Eponine as I walked along the river Seine, singing softly to myself.

On My Own, indeed.

And then.

A French man started talking to me.

It took a minute, but soon he was conversing with me in English, and promptly told me that he would be my tour guide. He then proceeded to grab my arm, 

and wander the city with me for three hours.

Truth be told, I wasn’t too keen on his help, but he was walking the same way I was, and he knew how to get places. 

And I had a lot of places to get to. 

He was an atheist, a physics teacher, 

from a city I’ve never heard of.

He quoted Bruce Lee at least once every half hour.

Best conversation:

Him (in a thick French Accent): “You are from Utah? Utah is known for something… What is it?”

Me: “Our snow! We have the greatest snow on earth!” (I’d just been in the Swiss Alps, mind you, and I had snow on the brain)

Him: “Oh yes!! That is it!… No… Wait… And there are a lot of Mormons there, am I right?”

To sum up our three hours together, he went from being my tour guide, to professing his undying love, and telling me that he knew where the Mormon Temple was and he would take me there immediately to get married and move to America with me.

“Because there is nothing more important in this world than Love!” he said.

Oh how ridiculously French of him.

I already know how my readers will respond.

Before you get too excited about the possibilities 

of a French Fling, lets get one thing straight.

He’s no Ethan Hawke...

Forgive me, but after about an hour with this fellow, I was D.O.N.E. done.  He was schmoozy and pushy and as the evening progressed he turned downright creepy.

At one point I literally said the words, “No means no! And I’ve said no!” angrily, as he pressed me to accompany him to his apartment that night for the third time.

But in French no kind of really means yes, no?

At one point we stopped at McDonalds for the bathroom, and I almost gave him the slip. But it was dark, and I was scared I’d get lost. So I was stuck with him until I got back to Notre Dame.

(Did I mention I can’t remember his name? I asked, he answered, I immediately forgot, and never asked again…)

He was quite the French stereotype, and only wanted to talk of love. He talked about how romantic love must be reciprocal, and how tragic it is when it isn’t.

But that it usually isn’t.

(Story of my life, Nameless French Dude… )

When we finally made it back to the Cathedral, I told him it was time to say goodbye. He said he would love to kiss me, and I said no way no how, pushed him back, 

and ran into the cathedral yelling,

“SANCTUARY!!!” 

 

But seriously. 

His thesis in all his Frenchman ramblings was that  LOVE is the most important thing there is in life. 

He said it over and over and over -that our goal in life must be to find love, and to find someone to love us.  

That we shouldn’t wait around for someone 

if they aren’t interested. 

That we need to seek love and show love and give love.

His last words to me, 

as I was literally pushing him away, were this: 

“Your life will not truly start until you realize that Love is the most important thing there is and you find it!”

It’s like he was giving the tag line for my blog, no?

I did run inside Notre Dame then. 

They were in the middle of the Easter Sunday midnight Mass.

It was packed, and silent, and candles were lit. 

The organ was playing deep and mournful tones, as the congregation was chanting and singing. 

It was beautiful. 

I sat in there for two and a half hours until the Mass was over. 

One reason was to ensure that I was in a large group as people left the cathedral late at night. 

Safety in numbers.

But I also sat to contemplate.

And to worship.

And think about Love.

And think about Easter.

And think about all of the implications of all those things.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am seeking love.

Preferably that of the reciprocal kind. 

But there is still great love abounding.

And so I continue to think about Love.

And I think about Easter.

And I think about all of the implications of all those things.