…Because every young and beautiful princess always was and always will be a young and beautiful princess, and every wicked ugly step-mother always was and always will be a wicked and ugly step-mother.
This story begins at “…and they lived happily ever after,” because time is cyclical and it all comes back full circle. Fair skin fades in time and once out of the forest, the world is a much larger place. The dreams and the adventures we were promised just fade to dust as time goes by and the opportunities dry up. Glass slippers were never designed to go the distance.
What’s worse than the story of the princess post ever after, is the story of the rest of us. Out of hundreds of girls at the ball what if your foot didn’t fit? Chances are it didn’t. It doesn’t matter if Prince Charming is a man, a record contract or Harvard . All the hype, all those lies they told us about how “special” we were really took us for a loop. Remember your face when you saw all of the other girls in their princess dress and tiaras? The sea of thousands of ravenous young women desperately clawing at their chance to escape from mediocrity and you couldn’t even get within yards of the prize before the frenzy was over.
Remember searching for that last bit of hope? Maybe He’ll notice you and he’ll whisk you away. “He hasn’t even seen me, and I’m different, I’m better than these girls. Right? Right?”
When he passes you, the Prince I mean, he looks right into your eyes for a moment and you two share that whole moment, but it passes. It’s over and he continues on his way barely acknowledging your existence.
Amazing how fast the fall was from glass slippers to Lucite stilettos. How love went from a force able to move mountains to a to a bitch scrubbing out of satin sheets.
Every year now, you trip the little nit-wits running down the streets in their princess dresses and their tiaras, eyes hungry and full of life. If only now you got an invitation to the ball, you’d put all these little bitches to shame.
I understand. Never being one for poise, grace and elegance myself, I have landed here among the dreams my alcoholic, self serving, cunt of a fairy godmother neglected to bippity bop into my reality. I could talk all day about life’s disappointments, but that’s not what this story is about…
It starts with Regrets
I found a crows foot today. Under my right eye, and I’m watching it like a hawk, resisting the urge to dowse it in L’Oreal anti-aging serum or smearing Botulism, E-Coli or whatever type of food poisoning burns off wrinkles. I don’t want to get old. I fear it.
As a young girl my options were a plenty, explorer, princess, warrior, astronaut... Barbie paved the way. Rapidly approaching the dreaded thirty, my options are drying up. I can choose from mom, career woman, or that chick still in the bar past her prime. After that stage, I get to pick from fairy godmother , evil witch or evil queen. The difference between the latter being purely cosmetic.
There is this incredible journey however, on my way from potential princess to evil queen. One I am slowly learning to embrace.