Today I am really enjoying being indoors (after finally discovering the thermostat in my room) and having the free time to both work on a miserable final project for sociology class, and procrastinate by reading historical articles on Wikipedia. This is an activity which should earn me some sort of geek award (I procrastinate with...more academics!).
Sometimes, during the middle of the afternoon on a quiet day such as this one, I stop and ponder my life circumstances for a while. There is always the nagging back-of-the-mind issue of how odd it is to be a 21 year old who has never been in a romantic relationship (save for when I was 10 and the adorable Italian kid I knew at the time gave me candy Valentine's Day...but that in no way counts). There are several factors that have probably contributed to this state of singlehood. Obviously, I was homeschooled throughout those formative Freudian years of middle and high school, with my only exposure to "mainstream society" being a dance class filled with high school senior girls (which, if anything besides being a good form of exercise, was horribly damaging to my self-esteem). Secondly, there are obvious body issues. I will not go there, and will skip over this limitation because I find it really demeaning to think that being fat, or short, or whatever category I fall into completely disqualifies me from having a healthy adult relationship. Plenty of stone ugly people wed for life and are happy. That is not an excuse when presented by itself.
Third (and finally) there are dual issues of social exposure to the opposite sex, and what may be the real root of the problem...guys at my college typically seem to think that girls still have cooties, or end up dating someone in their immediate clique. As a commuter student, I am usually excluded from most cliques. The other issue is that I present myself as opinionated, outspoken, and intelligent in class. If 75% of the male population desires to propagate the species by breeding with air-headed bimbos, I am automatically out of the running.
Here is where my historical fanaticism raises its ugly head again. In my heart of hearts, I want to be someone's wife. The sort of wife that has portraits painted of her, a woman who displays class and sensitivity. I'm not writing of the passive, lame, dead of childbirth type historical wife, but someone like Abigail Adams, who was able to retain her dignity and intelligence while exhibiting femininity. She was her husband's best friend, and was actually valued for having a brain and opinions. I also want to marry someone who is able to think and act boldly, an upstanding and ambitious person who is free from ridiculous amounts of egotism. It would also be kind of cool to be rich in an old-school way, but that's not necessary and is certainly unlikely to happen with my lust for the study of the Humanities (and male English majors, OMG! SQUEE! etc.). My ultimate desire is to imitate a historical life, while retaining modern customs (and probably steering clear of those creepy reenactor types).
Let me slip into fantasy life envisioning again:...After college and meeting Ideal Husband somewhere along the way, I will get a job that involves something historical or literary. He will also have this sort of job, but it will be nothing that causes us to compete or breeds animosity. We will restore a house, have interesting friends, and raise a large number of children to be free and independent thinkers. We will have the sarcasm and pretension-free camaraderie to sit back and laugh about how we have created this pseudo-historical life. When I am middle-aged, I will be able to sit on the lawn of my country house with my numerous brilliant and talented children, and survey my life dramatically, as it stretches out ahead like a painting by Gainsborough. Or, you know, not.
**Let's just not ponder the alternate future, in which I remain in my decrepit childhood home with my mother, surrounding myself in creepy ways with pets and dolls.**
I assume that part of my dutiful return to this fantasy is because some of this was my parents' (or at least my father's) unrequited dream. He never got the stone farm house in Southern York County, he got the crappy vinyl sided monstrosity with cheap rooster-related decor. I remember him sadly constructing the stuccoed fireplace, while I watched as a young child, well aware that there were beautiful historical homes where people like my parents' friends Ralph and Marge lived. I was exposed at a very young age to real walk-in hearths and giant colonial beds, bookends shaped like Pomeranian dogs and the smell of mulled cider cooling on an ornate windowsill. These images stuck in my brain and melded into some fuzzy, warm historical netherworld. They combined with scenes from fiction, such as James Herriot's described Yorkshire village, and times spent at historically-themed craft shows with my parents. History blended in with real family memories and became where I felt warm and safe, loved and cared for like a small child. My dreams remain there to this day.
Whatever happens, I'm glad that I got to experience some legitimate, ancient history in England, and I am thankful I get to come home again soon.
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