"Last night, I dreamt I went to Manderley…"

Well, not exactly. Actually, I dreamed that I was in a Jane Austen novel. Or maybe just in her milieu. It was the early 19th century. It seemed to be England. I was with a bunch of young women wearing high-waisted short-sleeved dresses. We all had our hair up with little tendrils hanging down. We were in the country, spending much of our time at a lovely estate. And everyone was obsessed with getting married. So obsessed, in fact, that someone had organized a sort of marriage market. All the unmarried young ladies and all the “eligible” (only in the strictest sense of the word) bachelors had been invited to the estate. It was sort of like a cattle market, or at least what I imagine a cattle market would be like. Young ladies would be trotted around to see if they sparked any interest on the part of the men. I stood off to the sidelines, not knowing what to make of the whole thing. The youngest women were all extremely excited and there was lots of jumping up and down when someone picked them. My dream best friend found herself a fiancé, but wasn’t at all happy about it. She kept asking me if I would still be her friend after she was married. I assured her that I would, but then she asked, “Will you still call me?” And I thought, “What do you mean ‘call’? There are no phones in the 1800s.” I overheard someone saying that young Miss So-and-so should be introduced to Mr. John Knightley, and I thought, “No, that won’t work, because he is going to marry Isabella Woodhouse.” Then I woke up. I have weird dreams*.

*It should be noted that I reread Emma while I was off last week and I watched Sense and Sensibility, so it’s not completely odd that I have Jane Austen on the brain. And I’m busy planning my own wedding, which is hovering near the edge of my subconscious at all times (hence, the waking up in the middle of the night with free-floating anxiety). Still, it was an awfully vivid dream.