I've been daydreaming over Jane Austen's happy endings again... The latest movie version of Persuasion has me dreamy-eyed and yearning for my own one all over again. Thing is, as soon as I take off the headphones and turn off the computer, reality moves back in. It's not like Louisa Musgroves are actually more stupid than I am, or that I'd be as deserving as Eliza Bennet of Mr Darcy's fervent love. Instead, I'm rather staid I suppose, lazy to a fault, terribly shy (now there's something that doesn't fit well with my job as a teacher :P ), and so old-fashioned that it's not even funny.
Still, can't help wondering if my life isn't just very slightly comparable to that of Anne Elliot in the sense that a woman at the age of 27 in Regency time would be somewhat an equivalent of a 40-year-old woman in the present day, especially in the meaning of waning looks and child-bearing qualities. In which case I'd be justified to dream of my own Captain Wentworth in the wee morning hours once in a while...?