Cherry Cordial

It isn't L.M. Montgomery's fault, really--I should really blame my mother. My discovery of Anne of Green Gables began when I was 8 and my mother started reading it out loud to my sister (who hated it). I lapped it up like a stray kitten who is gifted a saucer of milk. I never knew that books could be filled with such rich descriptions and romance, filling your head with vivid pictures that felt like dreams. Like every other little girl who reads about "Anne with an e," I imagined visiting Prince Edward Island, taking a horse-drawn wagon through the White Way of Delight, and living in a farmhouse filled with apple blossoms. I fell in love with the idea of seeing the world as Anne sees it: every mistake is an adventure, every acquaintance is a yet-to-be-discovered kindred spirit, and every forest is a fantasy. Anne is a lythe, fairytale creature who danced in the clouds and was loved by all who met her, from the sour old maid to the shy bachelor.

Therein lies the problem. I am nothing like Anne of Green Gables. No matter how hard I tried, I could not find the magical lens through which she was able to see the world. I trudged through my life, making the best grades, getting lost in my imagination, and making the occasional careless mistake (just like Anne). I starved myself to attain her waspish proportions and dyed my hair red. And yet, in spite of my fervent desire and herculean efforts to be just like her, life continues to be dull and lusterless. The biggest lie that Anne taught me was that someone will fall in love with you and stick with you, no matter how you treat him. There are no men like Gilbert Blythe in the world, and still I continue to hold out hope that if only I could emulate Anne enough, I will find him.

Sometimes, I envy those who never read about an orphan with red (auburn, to her friends) hair and her unattainable journey through life. What would it be like to never feel guilty for failing to live up to the unrealistic expectations built on printed words and flowery paragraphs? To fall in love and not compare your paramour to a man who has never existed, and who was written by a woman? I guess I'll never know. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to come across a Gilbert Blythe one day. Then again, he wouldn't want me--I'm no Anne Shirley.