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The World Is A Rich Tapestry

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You guys, it is happening. IT IS HAPPENING. Remember back in 2012, when I predicted we would see a resurgence in the popularity of the names of our mothers’ generation? I have now made the acquaintance of two young women named Barbara and Brenda; these lovely ladies are, I believe, the lead-offs in the trend that we will certainly see unfold over the next fifteen years. Mark my words, Barbara and Brenda will soon be joined by a whole host of Beverlys, Donnas, Corrines, Carols, Lindas, and Susans. IT IS HAPPENING. There is a very good chance that our granddaughters will be Bev and Barb.

Then, thirty years down the road, Bev and Barb will have their own granddaughters, and we will suddenly be swarmed by a sea of Jennifers, Julies, Michelles, Melissas, and, yes, NICOLES.

It is mind-blowing, people. Mind-blowing. Just as mind-blowing as seeing girls wearing pleated, high-waisted, belted shorts with little crop-tops. None of us learn from previous generations, we do not, not one bit*.

* Since the writing of that post, I have fully embraced skinny jeans and their beautiful ability to pair with tall boots. I know that the tide is starting to change, however. I know this because I saw a young woman, named neither Barbara nor Brenda, wearing straight-cut jeans with a belt, loafers, and a cropped top, taking me back to the days of “going dancing” and drinking vodka “slimes” out of a pitcher. Young women are the Indicator Species of fashion, as we know. Bodysuits will not be far off, MARK MY WORDS.

But I digress. One thing that we also do not seem to learn is that some things recur on an annual basis, and every year we see individuals become extremely combative with regards to the desirability or otherwise of these recurring events. For example, for every individual who lives for summer there is another who loathes the heat, for every skiier and snow-lover there is a Reynaud’s syndrome sufferer who dreads the long, cold winter (i.e., me). At this time of year, we see people firmly divided into two camps: those who love all things Pumpkin Spice, and those who do not. And of those who do not, there is a subsection of people who feel the need to disparage and shout from the rooftops how much they hate Pumpkin Spice, and how Pumpkin Spice things need to die in a fire and that Pumpkin Spice is the worst of everything and a harbinger for death by White Walkers. Or something. These are the same people who proclaim loudly that they Hate All Sports while everyone else is enjoying the Super Bowl, or that The Olympics Are A Giant Waste Of Money And Everyone Who Watches Them Are Contributing To The Decline Of Society.

We all know these people. We know, we know, such pleasures in life are just too bourgeois or pedestrian for you, special snowflake that you are. It’s not enough for you to NOT partake, you must mock all those who do. I am not a Pumpkin Spice fan myself, but far be it for me to ruin it for any of you who do love it (Rebecca, enjoy your PSL!) (HI REBECCA). While you’re enjoying your Pumpkin Spice lattes and Oreos and breakfast cereal, I will be over here waiting for MY favourite flavour season – Mint Chocolate. It’s coming.

As Swistle says, Do Not Yuck Another Person’s Yum. (HI SWISTLE). Some of us have the Cilantro Is Delicious gene, and some of us do not, and our differences make the world go ’round. The world is a rich tapestry, people.

Speaking of rich tapestries, I have been on a roll with reading excellent books lately (go read A Man Called Ove! It’s excellent.). One of the things I started doing this year, in a bid to be more like Allison (HI ALLISON), is recording the books that I have read so I can look back on the year, and recommend ones I loved. It’s also a good way to see how much I read in a year – so far I am on book number 59. I have the Calgary Public Library app on my phone, so as soon as I hear of a book recommendation I immediately put it on hold. I love the library. I love how I can read things I wouldn’t want to necessarily buy, and I love exposing myself to different genres. Once in a while, though, I pick up a book that has rave reviews and it turns out to be…how shall I say this…not for me.

I just finished a book that sounded so promising – two estranged sisters, coming together under the mysterious circumstances of their missing sister and the murder of one of their husbands – it was touted as a thriller and a mystery and I guess it was. If you really like books about the abduction, torture, rape, and eventual murder of young girls, then this is the book for you! If not, well, maybe learn from my mistake and don’t read Pretty Girls. I was somewhat traumatized after finishing it – I kept reading in the hopes that it would get better and be less violent, and IT DID NOT – and so I was happy to pick up the book I had put on hold a while ago, Difficult Women by Roxane Gay. It is a collection of short stories, and the very first one featured the abduction, rape, and sex slavery of two preteen sisters. So that wasn’t the best for my state of mind.

However, I would still very much recommend Difficult Women as it is a very compelling series of short stories; even the first one is not graphic, not really. I have had four books on hold suddenly all come in, and the next one I am reading is a “light British novel about life around a bookshop” so I am really hoping for no details about abduction, torture, rape, or murder.

Book Review: All Our Waves Are Water

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I was asked by Harper Collins to be a part of a virtual book tour for the memoir All Our Waves Are Water by Jaimal Yogis, and, although you know I’m not a “sponsored post” kind of girl, I am definitely a “book review” one. So I was thrilled to receive it and read this memoir about the path of enlightenment through surfing.

First, a confession. When I received a description of the book, the first line was as follows:

For Jaimal Yogis, the path to enlightenment is surfing. 

Now, reading that I assumed that Jaimal was a kind of yoga on a surfboard. Oh! I had never heard of Jaimal Yogis, that sounds interesting. But no, that is the writer’s name. His last name is Yogis. This is all explained in the introduction of the book, and I felt a little stupid after reading that. So Jaimal is a man, not a type of yoga. Just wanted to clarify that.

Normally the type of books I am attracted to feature a main character that I can relate to in some way. I would say that Jaimal Yogis and are I are pretty much opposites, and in a lot of ways, that made for a very interesting book. Jaimal hard-core travels around the world in an attempt to find himself, heal from a breakup, and surf a particular kind of wave, which I didn’t really understand, not being a surfer. Don’t get me wrong; this is no Eat, Pray, Love. This is a guy who literally spends months in India renting out a “coffin sized” room in a two-room shack, showering by heating a bucket of water on the stove and then scrubbing himself down with it, pouring canful by canful on his body. Given that I just got back from a vacation in which I was treated like a princess every second of the day, I couldn’t really relate to his one-dollar-a-day lodgings. Even back in my adventure travel days, I didn’t rough it very much, and so I give him credit where credit is due. It’s one thing to go on a journey to find yourself while living the high life, it’s quite another to befriend a displaced Tibetan monk and live with him, teaching him how to sing Country Roads.

Even though the story line wasn’t quite my cup of tea, there were a lot of highlights that I really enjoyed. Nothing makes you appreciate our western infrastructure quite so much as reading about riding on a bus on a bumpy, mountainous roads with no guardrails between the bus and rocky cliffs. The bus came to a screeching halt, and it was discovered that one tire had nearly fallen off, and the bus driver fixed it by taking a bolt from each of the remaining tires, and using those bolts to repair the fourth. This kind of makes my “I need to get the oil changed” crisis seem somewhat less urgent.

More importantly, there is a lesson to the book that I have been thinking of a lot lately. It’s a lesson in the ordinary, enjoying the little things in your everyday life. When you can breathe in fresh air after a rainfall, when you can sip that first cup of coffee, when you can enjoy just sitting with your children and not thinking about the million things on your to-do list, you can embrace happiness and joy in the ordinary. From the book:

We all know that we could go any day: a car accident, a brain aneurysm, a heart attack, a bullet…We know this and yet we don’t know it. We move through life as if we have forever, as if we can take the stroll around the block, the cappuccino made unusually well, the Tuesday fusilli, for granted. We live as if there will always be a million more like this. So we filter out the details. We go on stressing about accumulating achievements, the big impressive things. 

If you take anything away from that book – or even from this blog – I think that should be it. Take some time today to clear your mind and focus on the little, beautiful, ordinary joys in life. The rest can sort itself out.

 

It’s 5:00 pm and I have had no one bring me cocktails.

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My husband and I took a quick trip to Cabo San Lucas, leaving the kids behind with my parents. I know! I can’t believe it either. We had a great time, the kids had a great time, and now it’s all “back to reality” and attempting to both reestablish a routine AND savour every moment of this last week before school, which seems like two non-intersecting circles of a Venn diagram.

We arrived home on Sunday night and yesterday I spent the day in that post-vacation state where you wonder if you were actually on vacation or if it was some kind of dream. I popped out to the grocery store before teaching in the morning, and the Co-Op was changing their aisles around. How long was I gone, I wondered, while staring at the shelf where the rice stick noodles used to be. I stood motionless in one aisle so long that an employee asked if I was okay. I’m okay, I just don’t know where the fusilli is.

Anyway, I am now feeling extremely refreshed and rejuvenated; I think that I was maybe a bit burned out before going away. Princess problems, I know. Even though it was just a quick trip, it was incredibly relaxing. I mostly did nothing except cool off in the pool, drink refreshing cocktails, chat with people, eat, and read. I have been on a roll of reading excellent books, and I also read one not-excellent-but-still-decent book that will be reviewed soon, as I am involved in a virtual book tour. Stay tuned!

One of my favourite things about travel is meeting people. Everyone has a story, to me, everyone is interesting. Most of the people I met were from the southern United States, and I stand firm in my opinion that Americans are the friendliest people on earth. However, they do not spell Toffifee correctly. I took this photo of the candy in the international departures part of the airport, because I was shocked – SHOCKED, PEOPLE – to see it spelled Toffifay. TOFFIFAY! Heresy! But several American friends have told me that is the American spelling and I just don’t know what to do with that information.

I suppose it’s a tomato tomahto thing, and as long as we all eat them by peeling off the caramel layer, and then eating it layer by layer, all is well and harmonious. If not, well.

In addition to all the lovely Americans, I also met a newly-single girl from Calgary. We chatted for a long while, and when I recommended to her the above book, The Choices We Make, she gave me the side-eye. “Is it a self-help book?” she asked with a sigh, and when I replied that it was not, it was an excellent novel, she told me that since becoming single her friends have inundated her with self-help books. That seems to me a little presumptuous, and I don’t think I would ever recommend a self-help book to anyone, in any circumstances.

Also a little off was the group of young men wearing red ball caps with what I THOUGHT said “Make America Great Again” but actually said “Make John Single Again.” Guys. In the first instance, I thought that it was pretty rude and insensitive to wear a hat like that in Mexico, of all places, but when I discovered what they really said I was kind of appalled on a whole new level. I mean. I presume this is a stag, where the fellows are lamenting their friend’s bachelorhood, but really. Really, guys. To make matters worse, the fellow I presume was John wore a cap saying “Make Me Single Again” and I feel for his bride-to-be. John’s fiancee, this may not be the best start.

Unless – UNLESS – he was actually newly single after a break-up and his buddies were cheering him up but a) that seems unlikely and b) this was a resort geared towards couples, and if they wanted the newly-single guy to get lucky there are probably better places to do that. Improbable, but not impossible, I guess.

The kids are back to school in one week, and I am feeling a bit melancholy about it; fleeting time, I miss them when they are gone all day etc., etc. I can’t complain though. We have had the most beautiful summer ever; I cannot remember another summer this warm, sunny, and lovely. It’s my favourite season and I’m trying to think of all the things I like about fall, but alas. The leaves are already turning and our front yard is sprinkled with dropped leaves; I don’t feel ready but here we are. We cannot stop time, as my trip to Costco today reminded me. Just in case anyone wanted to buy one of these they are now available – only 117 days until Santa is here!

Bathroom Renovation, Five Years Later

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The leaves are starting to turn on my Mayday tree, and even a few are falling to the lawn. All of you in places with long, unbearably hot summers probably cheer this, but Calgary summers are short and, although this year has been a beautiful, beautiful exception, not hot. In any case I love summer and wish it was longer, but alas. We are where we are, and in any case, time stops for no one. I shouldn’t get the cart before the horse, however, because there are a few weeks left.

The beginning of August marks seventeen years in our house – seventeen years! I ran into a friend of mine who is doing renovations on her house, and I mentioned that we have extensively renovated our 1962 bungalow; in fact, we have done two complete kitchen and two bathroom renos yes, in the same house, while living in the house. Longtime readers may recall our last renovation and all the adventures that came with Ron and Don, the brother team who did them. Ron, the general contractor who had a terrible temper and constantly swore at his crew, and Don, the dim-witted brother who didn’t seem to know how to use a level, much to Ron’s chagrin.

Who names their children Ronald and Donald, you may be asking yourself, and I will point out that it used to be quite fashionable to name twins with rhyming names, like Sherry and Terry. Perhaps their mother wished they were, in fact, twins.

That last renovation was completed five years ago; at the time I had been the recipient of some passive-aggressive commentary about our use of granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Apparently those two things are destined to be the avocado appliances and orange linoleum of this generation. Well, five years in and I still mostly love our renovations; I thought I would share a few photos and see if there would be anything I would do differently.

Before I start with that, let me describe to you the house we purchased, seventeen years ago. The living area was painted Pepto Bismol pink, with shiny, forest green trim. The fireplace was 1970s gold rock, the kitchen had homemade cupboards that stuck every time you opened or closed them, and there were five different – but coordinating – patterns of wallpaper in the kitchen. Included in the kitchen was a dishwasher that used to be mobile, but was now stuck in a cut-out piece of the cupboards, the main bathroom had brown fixtures, the basement was panelboard and linoleum, and there was panelboard and outdated wallpaper in the bedrooms. You may be asking yourself why we purchased the house in the first place. Well, it was in a neighbourhood we loved – and I still love it; walking distance to schools, library, shopping, a swimming pool, great community feel, and large, beautiful trees and lots. This fixer-upper was within our budget and we did all of our first renovations ourselves, saving a ton of money, back in the day when we were just newlyweds starting out. I have fond memories of all the work we did, because we did it ourselves. Nothing bonds a couple like scraping wallpaper directly off drywall. I also have fond memories of the later renovations, because someone else did them, and did them quickly and – sailor-like swearing aside – efficiently. Shut up and take my money.

The very first thing we did in our house – other than paint over the pink and green – was to get rid of the brown fixtures in the bathroom. We replaced them with basic white ones, and a plain vanity from Rona. When we did our big renovation five years ago, we decided to get rid of the bathtub altogether. We have a bathtub in our second bathroom, but no one really baths in our house – we are a family of shower people. So, we put in a big steam shower instead!

I’ve never regretted that decision for a second. We put in a fancy rain-showerhead, a regular hand-held showerhead, and a “body spray,” which to my knowledge no one in our family has ever used. If I was to do it over again, I would skip that fixture. I love having the bench in the shower; it makes it easy for product storage and also for shaving my legs.

One thing I love about our bathroom is the shower floor – like standing on perfectly smooth river rock. It was something I saw in a friend’s house, and I immediately coveted it.

The granite countertop and trim on the bench matches that in the kitchen and around our house – but more on that next time! For now, here is the bathroom before we did the big reno:

All in all, I’m very happy with our bathroom, five years in. Next time: the kitchen!

The One Year Shopping Challenge OMG Seriously

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I am taking a deep breath as I write this, to say that yes, I am going to do the one-year shopping challenge. I know! I know. No new clothes for a whole year, starting retroactively August 1. Can I do it? I don’t know, but I’m going to try.

I will say this: if you tell people that you are going to go clothing-store-free for a year, the reactions will be threefold. First, the people who aren’t really shoppers, but are highly enthusiastic and supportive of your venture. Second, the people who ARE shoppers, and who say that they could never do that themselves, but yet are highly enthusiastic and supportive of your venture. And third are the people who passive-aggressively say that they sure hope you can make it through this struggle and difficult time, princess, and is your tiara a little too tight? Your diamond ring too heavy? That’s tragic.

Oh, people of the internet. Never change.

I am making a few exceptions to this challenge: clothing makes perfectly acceptable Christmas and birthday gifts, and I will still ask for items for those occasions. I am not a monster. Also, I will buy myself the following clothing items as needed: winter driving gloves, a bra, socks, and underwear. My current pair of winter gloves is in a sad state, and this is more an item of necessity than anything else. I have also needed a new bra for quite some time, since my – ahem – size has changed. However, it could be another year before I buy one because, as my husband said, I have to actually a) go to the mall, b) go into a store, and c) have it fitted. I am definitely an online shopper, versus a mall shopper, and so I will probably put that off as long as I possibly can. Socks and underwear are self-explanatory. I am not going to skimp on those things.

Anyway, just because I am not shopping for myself doesn’t mean I am not shopping at all. This week, I did some back-to-school shopping with the kids; mostly supplies, but also new running shoes. People, they wear men’s sizes now and I can tell you that things have suddenly gotten expensive. Hoo boy. Shoe shopping with children is always a hellish prospect, but when you know that the end result is going to be the loss of your sanity AND a large sum of money, well.

Speaking of hell, last night I was grocery shopping at Superstore while the kids were at karate. It is very convenient, since I have an hour to kill and the store is very close to the dojo. Sometimes I zip through the store, finding everything I need and feeling happy and satisfied. Other times, like last night, I feel like I have literally descended into hell. It was madness, madness, I say. Shelves were half-stocked or not stocked at all, there were piles of random items in baskets at the end of every aisle, all of the aisles have been changed around so that not only was it difficult to find ordinary things, but the shopping experience was kind of gross because of it. I mean, cereal should not be right beside cat food. Tofu and other vegan products should not be beside the live fish and crab tanks. Sesame oil should be in the “international” aisle, not with the ketchup. I am always very tired on Thursdays, but last night I was completely frazzled and exhausted by the end of it.

I know, I know, princess problems.

The upside of shopping at Superstore is that there is always something entertaining and interesting going on, either in the store itself or in the parking lot. Right before the Canada Day weekend I was walking through with my giant cart, and a man was going back to his car with nothing whatsoever except an economy-sized package of toilet paper and a plunger. No bag, no cart, just those two items. He walked tall and proud, and I salute that man.

Last night as I was going into the store, a fellow drove by slowly with a 1970s-era convertible Corvette. He must have noticed me looking, because he gave me that nod and smile that is the universal code for “How YOU doin’?” Still got it, baby. But as he drove away I noticed his license plate: 4KROOZIN. Again, I salute you, sir, for embracing who you are with no apologies.

Hello darkness, my old friend.

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Can you even believe it is August already? We were on vacation last week and since I’ve been back I’ve noticed the huge change in daylight. Before I left the sky was light when I left the house at 5:00 am; now I have to turn on the outside light to go to the garage. I don’t need to close the blinds tightly when I go to bed because it’s already dark.

I know in many, many places in the world, August is still considered “summer” but to me, it begins to feel like fall. The air feels cool and crisp, and even though we have had the warmest, most beautiful summer I can ever remember, I am not ready for it. One thing to note about this city: our summers are short and once the weather turns, it turns. There’s no going back.

Don’t go, summer! Don’t go.

One thing about August is that it’s time to prepare for school; one of my tasks today is to figure out what clothes still fit the boys and what needs to be purchased. Spoiler alert: nothing fits and the children currently have bare drawers where once there were jeans and long-sleeved shirts. It is also the time to think of winter gear – no, it’s not too early, technically we can have snow any time now.

Recently a friend finished a one-year non-shopping challenge, in which she bought no clothes for a whole year. A whole year! I wondered if I myself could – and perhaps, looking at my overflowing closet of much-loved clothes – should take that challenge. Readers may recall that I did a challenge like this last year after I Kondo-ed my closet; I vowed not to buy any clothes for approximately six months, and I did it. Could I do it for a whole year? I was thinking August 1 might be a good start date for that, keeping in mind that asking for clothes for Christmas and my birthday would still be acceptable. Technically speaking, that is. If there is one thing my husband loves to buy for me for such occasions, it is Lululemon wear. What’s not to love? He knows my size, my style preferences (Wunder Unders, Power Y tanks, and long flowy black sweaters) and he can order it online. I shall not take that joy away from him/ I need an out in case a really cute top comes on “We Made Too Much.”

Anyway, I’m considering it. A whole year, though! I wonder if I could do it. I certainly wouldn’t do it for the boys, since their pants are currently in the “capri” zone and their shirts are inadvertently “three-quarter length.”

Speaking of which, does anyone actually like three-quarter length shirts? As a long-limbed girl, they make me feel like an ape or an orangutan wearing human clothes for some kind of animal-based sitcom.

We were on vacation last week, visiting family and friends, and for the most part it was very lovely; lots of long walks, pool time, sunshine, and tasty drinks. This week has been all about getting back to routine, such as it is in the summer.

Someone mentioned to me that my life looks pretty sublime, at least according to Facebook, which is kind of a funny metric. I mean, my life IS pretty sublime, I certainly have no complaints; the vast majority of my time is spent teaching yoga, preparing food, or grocery shopping, all excellent endeavors that I enjoy very much. But of course we rarely talk about the dreary parts of life, like washing dishes several times a day, or cleaning the yard of previously-digested dog food, or pestilence.

Yes, pestilence. We arrived home from vacation to discover that some young people in this house had improperly disposed of Freezie wrappers in the downstairs garbage can, leading to sticky fruit liquid on the floor, and an infestation of ants. Ants! Fortunately one of those young people redeemed himself by googling DIY ant traps, and so we mixed a cup of sugar with half a cup of water and a tablespoon of Borax, and I highly recommend this route. We soon had a Gone With The Wind-like scene featuring ants in the place of wounded soldiers.

Later that same evening, my husband and I were watching Game of Thrones and I found myself staring off into the distance as a coping mechanism during a particularly grim scene. I saw…something. Something black and long and…it disappeared into the useless little cupboard over the staircase. I looked, and my alarmed husband asked what exactly I was looking for. I said that I thought – maybe – it could be a mouse. My husband looked at me and said, “OH NO” in the manner of someone who has to deal with the fallout of a major disaster. We looked but couldn’t see any signs of previously-digested mouse food, and so I said maybe it was just my imagination.

You know how you say something, but you really don’t believe it? That was me. I just knew there was a mouse in the house but had no proof. Sure enough, the next day I took out the kitchen compost bin and underneath it was a sure sign. I called my husband, who asked me, in a very worried voice, why I sounded so calm. He was remembering my near-breakdown after The Moustastrophe of 2013. That evening I went out to teach a class, and my husband and the boys set traps. Later, after I was in bed, apparently there was a snap and then there was much jockeying and arguing about which boy would get to dispose of the mouse carcass. Another trap had to be set on the off chance that the deprived child would be able to act as Mouse Undertaker, but happily, this has not yet come to fruition.

Becoming Charlotte Lucas, or Thoughts on Pride and Prejudice

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A new shop has opened up in my neighbourhood; it is called The Fairy Hut. I’ll just let that sit with you for a moment.

Now, I am a huge proponent of small businesses and new businesses and entrepreneurs, and I hope with all my heart that it is a success, but I can’t help wondering what the market is for, as they advertise, all things whimsical. It seems a bit niche to me, but perhaps there is a large demand for fairy-type objects. I have not been in it myself, but have walked past it with the dog many times, dying of curiosity. I have a lot of admiration for people who open up their own businesses; it’s very brave and demanding, I can imagine. I am not a person who takes those kinds of financial risks; more on that later. If you’re the type of person who does like fairy and/ or whimsical objects, then this might just be the place for you. I just hope that the owners have done their research in terms of fairy-related demand.

The name, however, brings to mind my high school job at Pizza Hut. I can still remember answering the phone over and over, Hunterhorn Pizza Hut, this is Nicole speaking, have you heard about our five-buck deal? Buy the first medium pizza at regular price, and the next three are only five bucks each! Then you would ultimately have to explain to grown people that no, you cannot pay regular price for a plain cheese pizza and then get a pizza loaded with eight toppings for five dollars. Then sixteen-year-old me, being paid $4.50 an hour, would be chastised over the phone by grown people who were too cheap to pay the extra three dollars for all the toppings that they wanted. Good times.

The boys have been in karate camp this week, which has been very enjoyable, albeit busier than normal, ironically. I think it’s all the extra driving, but on the upside it has given me a chance to think about an interesting piece I read about the most widely mocked character in Jane Austen’s books – Mrs. Bennett.

Are you a Jane Austen fan? I first read Pride and Prejudice when I was in a first-year English class in university, and I remember being immediately hooked. I loved everything about it; I loved the witty writing, I loved the little rituals and rules of society, and most of all I was interested in the economic situation of ladies of a certain standing. I was, after all, an economics student.

What fascinated me – and still fascinates me – is the idea of marriage as a financial decision. I suppose it can be true today as well, but imagine! Imagine spending your entire life learning to play the pianoforte or paint a half-decent picture, learning needlework and the art of conversation, and going for long walks on your property, and THAT IS IT. After spending your youth in that way, the best thing that could possibly happen would be for you to marry a man of means, because you would have absolutely no way of making those means yourself. This is especially true if, like the Bennett girls, you were going to be essentially homeless upon the death of your father, having absolutely no property and very little money of your own. This is also what happened to the Dashwood women in Sense and Sensibility. This is probably what happened to countless women at the time; if they were not fortunate enough to marry well – or even semi-well – they would be sentenced to a life of poverty and dependency on the goodwill of their friends and family.

The author of the article disparages the elder Bennett girls for being too accepting of their fate, but in all honesty, what else could they do? They could rail about it as much as poor maligned Mrs. Bennett, but nothing would change – in fact, if they did rail about it, their chances of making a decent match would probably be obliterated. To be honest, both Mrs. and Mr. Bennett are ridiculous, in my opinion, as they spent money like it was going out of style, never saving a whit, because they figured that they would have a male heir. Talk about rolling the dice and making it rain, elder Bennetts.

So as I was driving back and forth to karate camp, I was thinking about this and wondering – as one does – what I would do in such an era. Sometimes it is difficult to be honest with yourself, like when you spend your life thinking you’re Jo March and really realizing that you are Amy.

But as I thought about myself in terms of Pride and Prejudice, I came to a disturbing realization; I am not a feisty, witty, Elizabeth Bennett. I am not sweet, beautiful Jane, either. No, the character that I am most like is Charlotte Lucas. Charlotte Lucas, the cringe-worthy lady who takes Elizabeth’s leavings and snaps up the pathetic, boring, lame Mr. Collins. Charlotte was in her late twenties – way past her prime at the time, and probably had at that time given up all hope that she would ever have a home of her own, instead living in her parents’ house until she would ultimately be dependent on the kindness and duty of others until the sweet release of death.

I am an extremely practical person. I do not make emotional decisions, I plan carefully and think things through to the logical end. I am in no way a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants girl, I am a planner and a rational decision-maker. Maybe it’s the economist in me; rational behaviour is a common term in economics and it describes my life decisions. And so, I startled myself by realizing that if I was given the choice between semi-destitution and becoming Mrs. Collins, I would gear myself up for a lifetime of listening to those “little compliments ladies enjoy” and endless praise for “my benefactress, Lady Catherine.”

Introspection is a bitch, sometimes, isn’t it?