1826? Absolutely Not.
The year is 1826. Or something equally unfortunate. It’s a dusty, dingy room where the air moves languidly, circulating the rancid stench from… Oh…oh no, is that coming from me? Sniffing, rubbing, flapping – nothing helps. The reek remains.
Good grief.
How did people survive dirtier, harsher, less genteel times? And I’m not just talking about a couple hundred years ago; this goes for any era where my survival odds would hover around zero.
Not that I am inept or incapable, I just do not want to. Chop wood every day to keep warm? *whines* “but I chopped wood yesterdaaay and it hurt my haaaands.”
Fine. The elements win.
Non-existent or infrequent showers? Pass.
No books to read?
Unthinkable.
You want me to hand-sew five layers of clothes?
Please.
In bed at sunset, up at sunrise? With no Starbucks?
Get real.
Back then, whenever then was, you could count on an ever-revolving crisis du jour: snakes, wild animals, renegades, barbarians, disease-of-the-month club and weather with a personal vendetta.
Exhausting.
You want to eat? Uber Eats? No pumpkin, not yet. Grab a gun and shoot something. Shoot something? That’s adorable. I’m hyperventilating thinking about it. While I am a real carnivore, I literally could not.
Starvation mode enabled.
That whole chamber pot thing? Utterly revolting. And knowing my station in life, I wouldn’t be the one with a servant, I’d be the chambermaid tasked with emptying that vile little bucket of human despair.
Personal hygiene denied.
And then, as a bonus round of suffering for the ladies, there were the misogynistic customs. Of course there were. Sass and refusal to bend to the rules would have exiled me to life on the outskirts of town with the rest of the derelicts and ne’er-do-well’s.
Are you kidding me?
So, when that conversation starts with: If you could be born at any time in history, when would it be? I’ll politely decline and remain exactly where I am; the blessed age of indoor plumbing, stocked grocery stores, curated coffee and gloriously hot showers.
