Thirty years ago, for the last Royal Wedding, Maurice, the boy who probably loved me more selflessly than any other boy ever will, shlepped into town, rented a tiny TV, magically rigged it up in the middle of his cabin, set it for 3 in the morning and came through the window of my bunk at Camp Hillel (where I was a counselor and he was a cook) and woke me up so that I could watch it.
This time around, I got up leisurely at 8, and CNN had the long version, the highlight version and the still version all awaiting my pleasure. And this time it was in color.
Of course, CNN did not do this especially for me.
Thirty years is an awfully long life-yardstick and plenty of time for even a much-loved girl to realize that she ain’t never going to be no princess.
So many of the smart and beautiful women who have let me into their lives and intimate thoughts have (was it Steinem who said it?) become the man they wanted to marry.
I have not.
Way, way back, when I was cute enough to collect a few, the proposals ranged from the family-spice-business suitor who informed me that I would, of course (OF COURSE!) not be able to work, but he would take care of me and our many kids in a beautiful house and give all of us everything we could possibly want. I said no thank you.
Another, a prominent Rabbi’s son, promised me that although we’d have to “hew” to his father’s orthodox regulations he would always get us really good weed. I said, no thank you, I don’t smoke.
A third was already supporting his parents and was already a rising banker and couldn’t take his eyes off me but I said, no thank you, and what I didn’t say was that I can’t even bear to kiss you let alone do anything else.
The man I actually married did not have that I will take care of you mentality nor does my current partner.
We women are on our own.
One of the business bloggers I read says that we are sold this fairy tale and that wanting to be taken care of means you are not dreaming big enough.
I am trying to dream big these days.
And Sruli and I rely on each other, in a modern Mom ‘n Pop shop kind of way.
So no glass carriage or convertible with the steering wheel on the wrong side for me. My waist will never be that tiny and I couldn’t possibly fit into all the requirements and protocols that the new Princess will have to “hew” to.
I hope her fairy tale has a continuously happy ending, unlike the one, nebikh, thirty years ago.
Meantime I am in the middle of creating my own tale, which has its magical moments, as well as some scary dragons.
I am not my own Prince, but my own Fairy Godmother, I guess.
I wonder if Maurice watched this time.