I tried not to watch Bridgerton again. I really did. But it has such a chokehold on me that I can’t even get through my day without thinking of one of those fictional characters living in that fictional world, going on with their fictional lives, having the best fictional sex and -fictional drama, etc., etc., etc… Just when I feel that I am, as a fully non-fictional entity, capable of functioning in a non-fictional world, I grab the remote control and re-immerse myself to a world that would probably be my very last choice if I ever had the pleasure of traveling back in time in a DeLorean. 

But it’s all so pretty. The homes, the dresses, the balls…The flowers, the music, the balls…The afternoon teas, the promenading, the balls…There’s just something about that aesthetic that just reaches into my soul. And it has nothing at all to do with the fact that my life is, of late, one long stretch of trading off two pairs of four-year-old shorts with various thrift store shirts (they are cute, though) and various pairs of Chucks. Or the fact that I haven’t had a live flower in my home for months and that I’m more likely to down two Diet Cokes and a cinnamon pretzel rather than an Earl Grey and finger sandwiches. 

But the balls! So many fucking balls (Okay, fine, I admit that I would probably attend one ball if I ever had the opportunity)! It is to submit to having to go week after week, same people over same people, saying the same things, living the same life, trying to bag the same husbands, trying to find someone that isn’t going to abuse you, drop you off in the countryside somewhere, and leave you pregnant while they gallivant from town to town…Oh shit, things just got real, really fast. Where was I? Oh yeah, it’s all just so pretty! 

A world where people of the ton (super rich English people) don’t have to work if they have a title. Where there are always staff members around to keep your life in order and do all the dirty work for you. Where you don’t even have to lift up an arm to brush your own hair or have a need to know how to mend your own clothes because (aha!),you’re so rich that you can visit the Modiste three times a week and pay for dresses (no pants or shorts here) that you will only ever deign to wear once ever in your whole life! 

It is a place where no one is ugly (they can’t afford to be, because who would marry them—am I right?) and there can be 95 pounds of food on the table for breakfast but only two people in the household who have a right to eat it. (Tell me that doesn’t sound like the most awesome thing you’ve ever heard of). An absolute delight of a life where you drink so much lemonade that your teeth are apt to rot out, but nobody ever has to go to the bathroom after drinking a gallon of it. (Just a side note—if you have the time, you should do some investigating into how people in the Regency era had to take care of some of their more, ahem, basic functions—it’s mind-blowing.) 

And I love all of it! I love the angst amidst the excess! I love the fancy (but surely very hot) dresses and excessive drama! The backstabbing! The lies! The intrigue! The super-hot lead actors! (Really Nicola Coughlan and Luke Newton, you two just need to chill out with your mega-sexiness, because you’re keeping me up at night!) It’s all too much and I have no defense against it. I barely had time to write the blog because I couldn’t wait to post this shit up somewhere and get back to my sexy Bridgerton babies.  

So, I just needed to get these words out into the world because I am truly going crazy. I’d like to think that I have the wherewithal to unplug myself from a hobby that is keeping me from being a fully functioning human-being, but I don’t. I can’t think so well these days because I am a goner for Bridgerton and I won’t be back to pre-crazy days for a good long while. Wish me well—I’m going to be living here until I’m a wasted shell of a woman. (Damn, what a way to go!)

©DRB 2024

Photo by BoliviaInteligente on Unsplash