I realized today that I no longer believe in fairy tales. Maybe that’s a conclusion a woman of my age should have reached years ago. Then again, as a writer of fiction, maybe I shouldn’t have let that belief go so quickly.
Regardless, I did not get up to watch the Royal Wedding (Aww man, there we go, my cynicism has leaked through my capitalization). I’ve been burned before.
When I was little (little enough that it’s remarkable that I could possibly remember, anyone who’s trying to nail down my actual of-my-age) I remember hearing that a prince had found his princess, and they were going to live happily ever after.
She wore a puffy white dress and walked down the most enormous aisle I’d ever seen then or since, and it was like the books I’d read filled with saturated pictures and complicated first letters.
But it turned out it wasn’t like those books at all. It was like the reverse of the fairy tales, she started out free and happy and ended up locked away, alone, in a tower.
I wish the royal couple the best, and hope for them that it all works out, but I couldn’t get up to watch this wedding, and I’ll stay away from the coverage as well. I’ve been saying that I’m not interested, which is true, but I think it’s more about the hand that wore that ring before.