…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.
