I've had some Emma Woodhouse moments; I've had a lot of Harriet Smith moments; but I've never had a Lizzie Bennet moment. Until now.
Some months ago (the same day as my speed dating adventure actually) I was confronted by this guy whom, for the sake of the story, I'll call Mr. Bingley.* Mr. Bingley was an acquaintance in the most literal sense of the word, and on this day, he spoke his second or third full sentence to me: he asked if I would be interested in going on a date with his friend, whom I shall call Mr. Darcy. I agreed to it because I'm a nice person and because, well, you never know, right? I gave Bingley license to give Darcy my phone number.
A few weeks go by, no phone call, no text message, and I forgot about it. That is, I forgot about it until this guy starts showing up to places I frequent, usually surrounded by at least one or two Carolines. I finally put together what I am 99% sure happened: Bingley gave Darcy my number, Darcy asked around and found out who I was, and then decided I was not worth the courtesy of a phone call. Having lots of experience as a Harriet Smith, the blow to my vanity was minor and I quickly recovered; however, tonight I had the privilege of being "formally introduced" to this guy at a party. It took all of my classiness not to call him out and be like, "oh, you're Bingley's friend, aka The One Who Never Called."
Fortunately, this very brief experience assures me that this Darcy is nobody that I could ever be prevailed upon to date, but even if he he had been remotely my type, his snobbery and blatant [word that Jane Austen probably never used]-iness is an immediate disqualifier.
I know what you're probably thinking: Oh, but maybe he'll declare his undying love for you and save your sister from a huge scandal and then walk through a fountain in a thin white cotton shirt. I scoff at that. Apart from this very instance, I am no Lizzie Bennet, and I have much more sense than to fall for any Fitzwilliam Darcy, either real or metaphorical.