I had to have been around 12 years old. Sixth grade, so whatever age that was. My best friend Steph and I would bring in the latest issue of BOP. (Remember that glossy book of angsty teenage hormones?) We’d talk about which celebrity heart-throb we would marry someday, years later when we were famous singers or actresses ourselves. Back when we thought you actually needed talent to be famous. Man we were so naive. If only we had known about reality TV and its endless possibilities of turning losers into quasi-celebrities. If only. Anyway, we would have these seemingly important life discussions about future husbands and it was then that I first thought beyond holding hands and stolen kisses with a famous boy, making me only a famous boy’s girlfriend (and eventually wife). I could be…dare I say it? I could be…a princess! But only if I chose the RIGHT boy. A prince. An adorable 13 year old boy named William. Ahem, PRINCE William. And faster than a two-dollar hooker, I was SOLD! It was decided. I was going to marry Prince William, spend my youth as a princess and one day become the next Queen Elizabeth. That was my plan. Done and done.
Then I turned the next glossy page, gazed into the gorgeous blue eyes of Elijah Wood, and next thing I know I’ve committed life-long devotion to a future hobbit. Now, I’ve seen Lord of the Rings and I’m pretty sure there are no hobbit princesses. Talk about disappointment.
All this to say, I’ve heard Prince William is finally engaged. And though I’ve been married for going on 5 years now, I’m a teeny-tiny bit saddened to know that I won’t be the next Queen Elizabeth.
Oh well. At least I still have The Shire. One of the few places my giant 8.5 foot looks delicate and miniature. I’ll take it.