Regency Reveries

Despite the fact that I have a strong attachment to my roots, I find myself frequently fantasizing, through an instagramed lense, a different lifestyle that closely resembles the Regency era.

I imagine lovely country homes placed within small villages, a lovely scenery that surpasses my vision of heaven, common courteously and polite young people sprinkling the countryside.

I would find no end to a soothing, wonderful place to read my many novels with relevance and appropriation. Finally, I could  physically place myself in the interesting roles of women such as Anne Elliot, Cathy Earnshaw, or many of the other heroines I am destined to read in the future.

Though I am not in need of a grand home, I do require a comfort that only the hilly countryside can provide in comparison to the flat valley I live now. I love walking, exploring, envisioning a life beyond borders and restrictions.

I am not prone to running, but enjoy taking my writing by way of a leatherbound journal.

Most importantly, I imagine a life with my long distance boyfriend, Tyler Stevenson, walking towards me, stunningly clad in a regency attire.

He has the strong jawline that I associate with Mr. Darcy, and a strong passion similar to Mr. Rochester; his dark features and smoldering black eyes remind me of Heathcliff (though I know Wuthering Heights to be Edwardian, not Regency).

My mom regards my passions with little consideration and thinks me silly for wishing I could dress, speak, and live like my many heroines.

We are country women, and we know the toil that is associated with such a living.

Romantic notions are replaced, in her mind, by following the contestants of the X Factor, and the need for basic electricity.

She calls my style of dress, at best, unbecomingly (my own words). I prefer to think my style timeless. I love the longer train at the end of my dresses, whereas she prefers to not wear any sort of dresses.

I wish for her to witness the world as I do. I see it with breathtaking soft glows, men of manners, or at least true passion, and beautiful shades of pastel colors expressed in books that have nothing to do with "50 Shades of Grey." (Btw, if you do wish to read a classic story with lots of sex scenes, even a gay one, I would try Fanny Hill. Not only is it interesting, but it was quite brave for a man to print in his time period.)

But the romantic trances the occupy my mind are of no consideration to the world I live in now.

When I couldn't find a writing position, I told my mother that perhaps I should have been a curator for some sort of Literary museum, since I have experience speaking to the general public as a tour guide for one of my previous internships.

With a literary background as broad as mine, it was essential to research historical occurences, manners, and style of dress in all the texts that were assigned; thus begins my love for historical dresses, which my mother finds hideous.

I prefer to think of it as timeless, classic, and romantic.

With a breast size of D-DD, it is hard to look elegant without looking slutty. Though I am estatic to be well endowed with such a gift, I do wish I could look like the intellect I believe myself to be.