Life in London: How I became jaded and bitter in my old age

By Meggie Cruser

Staff Writer

Let me just say that I am not a romantic or basic person in any way at all ever. Maybe if I say that enough times it will become true. I’m pretty sure you won’t think so after I tell you about this week’s adventure.

Surprise! It involves “Pride and Prejudice.” Again. In fact, we should probably title this week’s entry, “Meggie Once Again Skips Food and Travels to Other Countries In Pursuit of ‘Pride and Prejudice.’” Really, this whole obsession is getting rather ridiculous. It’s gotten to the point where everyone (including the professor) looks at me in class if the words “Jane” or “Austen” are even mentioned.

I’m the resident fanatic.

But this weekend has changed my perspective just a little bit on the whole “Pride and Prejudice” thing.

Let me start from the beginning.

I was late (per usual), hungry (per usual) and trying to find my train to Wales. I asked a stupid question about train times, got on a train, and hoped it was the right one.

Luckily, it was.

When I got to Wales, I realized I had booked my train ticket to the station furthest from the theater where “Pride and Prejudice” (the play) was showing for its last weekend. Planning trips is my forté! Elizabeth Bennet was a prodigious walker; why couldn’t I be, too?

(Quick note: That thought did not actually cross my mind as I was walking. I am not one of those people who tries to identify with Elizabeth Bennet. It’s hilarious that you thought I was doing that. I’m not totally insane.)

Anyway, I made it to the theater and met two incredibly nice Welsh women who had been best friends for 70 years. One of them gave me a mint, which proves how deep our friendship was. Either that, or it shows how gullible I am to accept food from 75-year-old Welsh women who also happen to be complete strangers.

It was during Mr. Darcy’s first proposal scene that I had my revelation. The spell finally broke.

I’m not sure that I actually like Mr. Darcy.

Wow, even typing that was painful. He is supposed to be possibly the most desirable man in the world of literature. Girls swoon over him. I used to swoon over him.

You know, swooning gets tiring after a while. I’m still not sure where Mr. Darcy and I stand, but I’m looking at him with a more critical eye now. Even if he is nice to his servants, and does nice things for Jane and Kitty (eventually), you just can’t get around the fact that he is a rude guy. Plus, he says he helped Kitty and Wickham because of Elizabeth.

Shouldn’t he want to be nice because he is a decent human being, not because of a woman?

Perhaps I’m getting jaded and bitter in my old age. But I’m beginning to wonder how much of people’s love for Mr. Darcy is related to a certain scene where Colin Firth wears a dripping wet shirt.

Now, will any of these thoughts stop me from going to any and every Jane Austen-related museum, store, play, movie, puppet show or food venue that is available to me? Of course not. I’m still just as clichéd a fan as ever.

But I’ll leave Mr. Darcy to Elizabeth; she’s a far better walker than me anyway.

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