The Lady and a boy named Dex: My life is not a Jane Austen novel.

6/24/2012 The Lady 1 Comments

If my life were a Jane Austen novel, it might be a tad more impressive than it actually is. If right now, I were the heroine of one of said novels, I might be on my death bed being bled by the local physician (who was really only doing the best he could with the way modern medicine was going), or I might be stealing furtive glances at the man I love in a crowded room, or I might even be standing on an impressive precipice musing over my love life in a overly dramatized and romantic sort of way.

But alas, my dear digital Austen-obsessed friends, it is not so. The reason it has taken me so long to write this much overdue post is because it is so un-Austen-like it is nigh onto unbearable, but in a strange and sickening way, I am delighted with this anti-climactic ending to The Lady and a boy named Dex.

The moment I saw Dex again, and he saw me, four years were behind us, and I knew that I didn't have to go back. Not even that, but that I didn't want to go back. And all of a sudden, none of it mattered anymore. He was just the same. He was funny, he smelled the same, he was kind, he was everything that I remembered, but even better. And none of it mattered. All I could think about was how I wanted to find someone as good as he was. That was it. It didn't matter if I was with him.

I don't feel much of anything now that it has finally come to an end. I thought that there might at least be some tears (at least one?) or an enraged outburst of some kind, but there has been nothing. It has been confusing me, and it continues to confuse my family and everyone around me. It is puzzling indeed.

I am not Anne Elliot like I thought I was, and Dex is not Captain Wentworth. Anne was going to spend the rest of her life devoted to her love for Frederick Wentworth even if he spent the rest of his life despising her for being so easily persuaded. And in the end, they overcame their differences and spent the rest of their lives together. And maybe that is what I am upset about now, that I am not Anne (or any other Jane Austen heroine), not the fact that Mr. Darcy/Wentworth/Brandon/Ferrars/Knightley has failed to show up.

Once upon a time, The Lady fell in love. Honest to goodness love. This was the story of her journey in and out of it and back into it again and out of it once more.

Con Amor,

The Lady