Fuck me, I’m trapped. Although, not imprisoned in the traditional sense, I am in very a nice family home where I am moisturised, fed and have strong WiFi. Yet, I am vaguely desolate. Maybe I do need a prince. At least if I were locked in a tower awaiting rescue, there would be a narrative arc. Somewhere along the line I assumed there would be a scene where the soundtrack would swell dramatically and a man would appear and say, “Don’t worry. I’ve handled it.” ” I don’t know what “it” is, only that I am very much not handling it. Which leads me to only one rational conclusion… I have mismanaged my fairytale.
I am lying, of course. I never really imagined a man saving me (yuck!) My favourite Disney film growing up was Mulan. I fully intended to save myself. I assumed I would march into adulthood, sword drawn, defeat circumstance and emerge with a tasteful flat and a collection of designer bags.
But it is only now, staring down the barrel of London property prices and my own decidedly middling salary that I am realising (with enormous reluctance) that marriage may not be a romantic institution so much as a financial instrument. How awful to discover you are not Elizabeth Bennet, sparring flirtatiously with a man of ten thousand a year but are in fact Charlotte Lucas. Who at the age of 27 (two years my junior) must be pragmatic. Although and I say this with some hope, I did read an excellent Austen fan fiction earlier this year, Introducing Mrs Collins by Rachel Parris, in which Charlotte embarks on a rather satisfying affair with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Which suggests that even strategic marriages may contain narrative twists.
So perhaps all is not lost. Rats. Why do I always lean toward optimism? Particularly when I am trying to wallow. Because truly, if I am to commit to this narrative, I must commit properly. I must fling myself across the chaise longue (which I do not yet own but have seen one that would work fabulously for this purpose in Homesense) and declare that society has failed me. MY NERVESSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!! The trouble is, I am not tragic enough to be tragic. I am not trapped in a tower; I am on my own floor and my bedroom is quite lovely. I am not oppressed. Stop. Stop. Stop. Why do I keep softening it? Why do I insist on disclaimers? “Albeit a very nice family home.” “Objectively lovely.” “Moisturised and fed.” I AM MISERABLE, how embarrassingly shallow.
Naturally, I have considered solutions to this predicament.
Option one: Marry well. This would require leaving the house more frequently and making prolonged eye contact with men in public spaces. I would need to develop a mysterious but approachable aura.
Option two: Become wildly successful overnight. The difficulty here is that I would need to do something wildly successful.
Option three: Continue as I am but describe it theatrically enough that it feels intentional.
Because let us examine the facts. I am not languishing in squalor. I have my own bathroom. There are people in studio flats paying £1,800 a month to brush their teeth next to their air fryer.
And yet I lie awake thinking, this cannot be the final form (please don’t let this be my final form!!!!!) I must get a grip, it is terrible to claim injustice when your mother has just asked if you’d like a cup of tea. There is nothing more embarrassing than suffering from unmet expectations you set for yourself after watching too many films and reading too many books. The sheer theatricality of my own disappointment is almost unbearable. I want to laugh but I might cry. I want to throw myself down the stairs (but then how would I refresh Rightmove?) Still, I maintain that the chaise longue would clarify the tone.
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