Princess in a far distant land

Years ago, I saw a cartoon that so resonated with me that I’ve always remembered it. A squat woman in a housecoat, her hair unkempt in what was probably her usual style, stood over a little girl eating a bowl of cereal at a kitchen table. Above the table hung a bare bulb with a pull string. Across the table from the child sat an unshaven man in his undershirt, reading the newspaper, perhaps smoking a cigar. It was the woman who provided the caption, which to the best of my recollection read as follows:

It’s true. You were born a princess in a far distant land. But you were given to us to raise, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

I read it and was beamed into another dimension. I was again a kid, past the point where I still believed in fairy tales, around the time I was beginning to run smack into reality, at the age when you start to wonder: Was I was adopted? Are these really my parents? (They don’t seem anything like me.) Could this really be the life I was born for?

My musings about the better life I should be living were frequently interrupted by the pair in the kitchen: Brush your teeth. Did you make your bed? I want you home right after school today, and you are not going out with your friends until your math is done!

So what did I turn out to be?

Plain spoken, shoot-from-the-hip, down-to-earth: I plead guilty. Not interested in pedigree, unimpressed by wealth and breeding, can’t be bothered with pomp and ceremony, looking instead for substance, character, meaning: yes, that too.

What does such a person do in the face of an onslaught of publicity about royal weddings? It’s hard to escape, but I didn’t follow the build-up. I didn’t speculate on what the gown would be like, had no idea whose jewelry the bride would wear, nor what the particulars of the royal hoopla would be. I did absolutely nothing, at least until my husband left for work this morning.

But then I took my bowl of oatmeal and my cup of coffee, sat down in front of the television, and turned on a news channel.

In all honesty, and although some I love and respect may think less of me for it, I have to admit that I watched some of the marriage of Kate Middleton, commoner, to Prince William, perhaps future king of Great Britain. I didn’t drool over it, but I didn’t scoff either, and I have to admit it stirred something in me.

Something of the fairy tales of my childhood.

Something of the magic of a wedding.

Something of the promise of love.

Something of the memory of an August day twenty-odd years ago.

I didn’t get married in a grand cathedral, and there was no horse-drawn carriage, no procession through cheering thousands, no television crews. But my groom was a prince of a guy, and the gown I got from a wedding outlet store turned me into a princess for a day.

I remember thinking, no one has ever loved anyone the way we love each other.

And what happened?

After the wedding, no matter if it’s conducted in fairy tale style or in more modest fashion, reality is bound to set in, and it’s not always a pleasant kind. You’re not Cinderella, and no one invites you to balls anymore. Sometimes you wonder if there wasn’t once a fairy tale kingdom which somehow got away from you. Sometimes it feels like you’ve turned into the guy in the undershirt and the squat woman with perpetual bad hair days. Sometimes you look into the mirror and realize, it’s not just a feeling. Maybe you’d say we lost our sparkle.

But maybe it’s not that bad.

Not a fairy tale, but a few years ago, Tom and I prepared a duet from “Fiddler on the Roof” for a workshop sponsored by a group we belonged to. Tom, as Tevye, sang, “Do you love me?” As Golde, wondering if her husband’s gone nuts, I responded with disbelief: “Do I what?”
The song goes back and forth. He persists with his question, which she keeps evading. They sing of their wedding day, both acknowledging the fear each felt at marrying, then recognizing the hard times, the struggles, the unromantic realities of the life they built together. Finally, Tevye interprets some of Golde’s comments: “Why, then you love me!” She grudgingly admits, “I suppose I do.” And he tells her, “And I suppose I love you too.”

Not perfect, but they make it work.

Maybe the real fairy tale is not that story of being born a princess in a far distant land. Maybe the real prize is if you’re born to become the pair under a bare light bulb in the kitchen.