Whenever I go out these days (roughly once every seven months), I am baffled and bereft. No one announces my presence as I enter the ball. Not a single person is wearing a corset. There’s not a bushy sideburn to be found. And the music? It’s not an orchestral arrangement of a recent pop hit, but an actual pop hit that is playing. The scandal of it all! Worse, when I go to spread the gossip for all to hear, it’s not Lady Whistledown’s latest newsletter that I am directed to, but a rancid place of toxic disrepute called “X” instead.
My fervent desire each year for the romantic escapism of Bridgerton surprises me, but it’s more potent now than ever—especially after I’ve seen the episodes of Season 3 that dropped this week. I’m not a person who is comforted by the coziness of Hallmark Christmas movies; in fact, I find myself rather allergic to them. I’m never whisked away by the period romances that enamor so many people—unless you count being whisked straight to a bored social media doomscroll. Yet I relish being transported to the Ton each new season.
(Warning: Some spoilers for Bridgerton Season 3.)
