Being Jane

I always liked the name Jane. If I ever have a daughter, I just might name her that. Conjures up images of Demi Moore doing one-armed push-ups and a woman in a bandana emerging from underneath a car, covered in grime. Today, I repaired a curtain rod, assembled a vaccuum cleaner and changed the headlight in my car, all before cleaning house and hosting coffee-talk with a good friend. (Changed headlights with the help of my oh-so-awesome brother: Even though I kept saying "Are you sure you're supposed to do that?" he knew exactly what to do, and I drove home safely with bright lights going before me.) Stand back, Rosie the Riveter! I like self-sufficiency.

But I also think of Austen's Jane Bennett, a sweet golden girl who exudes pureness of heart and is loved by a lovely man. I like being in love with another person. This has ony sort of happened to me before now, and I find myself stumbling all over the balance between myself and me-with-him. Naturally, I want to always be thinking of him--what he wants, needs, feels--and adjusting accordingly. Is that so wrong, to want to accomodate a loved person before yourself?

Jane is not a mirror, a mother, or a wishing well. And I know that I am not pure of heart. I like to think I can be very sweet, but I'm definitely not golden. I wish I had a better way to reconcile the two, sometimes. Maybe, I should just aim for bronze?