But they all had to have brown eyes, as blue ones look like sewed on buttons, or so clear they look like lakes. And as for those Irish wives, they were tall and blond.
They were all fine people-and incidentally, all Irish and a couple of the men Irish and Italian, which was nice, because I like dark men. Welcome to equality and a regime that is uninterested in child care. Well, they were right, and now we read stories about how you can’t, as a woman, have it all. But that was the Seventies, when AIDS and herpes were unheard of, and the nuclear family (not as in Iran) was said to be an unfair burden on women. Now, she sends me beautiful pictures of nature scenes, and we talk about nothing less pleasant.Īlright, I’ve had my share of partners-some horror stories and some successes, but of the two successes, both were married, and we were, in one case platonic, and in another, not, but with the intention and success of not being a wedge in his happy marriage. And so would Annie, my sister who once really looked up to me. I am I suppose a Plain Jane, and if you ask my brothers (inebriated or silent or dead) if I was Jane the Pain, they’d say Yes. Neither was I Jane Austen or Djuna Barnes (to leap forward 300 years), nor was I the Janes in all those other English novels. A handful of men (and a woman or two) have met those requirements, and my name was not Jane Eyre. And he wouldn’t have to go blind like Rochester, nor have his mansion burn down, but like Rochester he DOES have to have cleared all the “ghosts” out of his attic, and maybe that Jane (me) won’t have to go away and come back and find him ghost-cleared, clear sighted (seeing or no), and ready to understand who had been right next to him, and who had kept him very good company. But under the cover of darkness, as they say, it would be nice to have some learned man to discuss the finer things of life. To shower when you like, and, yes, to be a little lonely. Guests come and go, are marvelous company while they’re here, but it’s hard to deny that having the space again to balloon up your own ego, and things such as the nail on which to hold your own red potholders, is nice. I’m writing this essay on a glorious day in July-Independence Day, actually-and I’m here to discuss looking for my own independence, which is not to say, loneliness or even solitude which I gratefully have and enjoy.
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