I first read Bridget Jones’ Diary in 2000. I was on deployment. It was a gift from an ex-boyfriend. Even though he and I didn’t work out (and thank God for that; the next man I dated is my husband of 14 years), the book was a good read.
I commiserated and laughed with Bridget. Like her, I was sad that she and Daniel Cleaver did not work out. Sure, it was for the best, but still.
Failed relationships are sad and happy; if things went from the dating stage to the relationship stage, then something between the two parties must have worked.
In any case, she made it to Mark Darcy, the ultimate catch. They had a bit of work to do on both their parts, but they ended up where they needed to.
I watched the movie when it came out. I watched it again last night. I am no longer Bridget, which is okay. I don’t enjoy getting trashed anymore. While I do enjoy a good laugh with friends, I prefer it to be during the daytime. I don’t like parties either; I like curling up on the couch with my husband and watching TV with him.
But Bridget’s mum? Yikes. I’m turning into her. She said something about having raised children and not having an occupation, nor the respect of her husband. She was bored. I was shocked. Sure, my son’s not yet raised, my husband respects me, and I have this writer thing going. However, I have been close to that – to not having an identity outside of being a mom and wife.
I try to advise my other stay-at-home-spouse friends on the dangers on not having something to do that is all their own. It could be writing, crafting, crocheting, scrap booking, or even preparing odd rustic furniture from pallets.
Maybe Bridget Jones’ mum could be anyone. We are more than who we are to other people. We are who we are to ourselves. So, work on cultivating that identity.