How The Royal Wedding Shamed Me Into The Reality of My Romanceless Existence
So — you can scratch that piece I wrote about Harry and Meghan eloping because that was utter shit!
Like most of you — I was up bright and early — thanks to my internalized alarm clock — that has never let me down yet — and with a cuppa brimming with spices — I settled in for what turned out to be the most heartwarming event I’ve ever seen.
Almost forty years ago — on a hot summer day in 1981 — I also got up relatively early to watch the making of a real princess. Diana — the mother of the groom and his best man — walked down the extra long aisle to meet her prince — and all I could I think of was how extraordinary the train of her dress was. I marveled at the sight of all that fabric — being carefully handled on behalf of a woman who was actually quite young when she was thrust into the spotlight — that she was born to embody.
Of course — as a nine-year-old girl with stars in her eyes — I was so sure that this fairytale would remain forever blessed by the gods — who would surely save some of that confetti for me when I grow up and meet my prince.
Unfortunately — the downside of maturing happens to be the unavoidable task of being subjected to the ups and downs of life that can create the never-ending rollercoaster of emotions.
We know that Princess Diana wasn’t granted the “happy-ever-after” that she hoped for — and even worse — a couple of years after divorcing Prince Charles — she was tragically killed in a car crash during a high speed chase with relentless paparazzi — through the streets of Paris.
I was in my early twenties when the unfathomable occurred in the late summer of 1997 — and by then — I was already aware of the challenges involved with “Finding Mr. Right” — and my broken heart over the passing of Diana was entrenched in the realization that being blissfully young and naive — is a phase that ultimately passes to reveal the deceitfulness of Cinderella and all the other tales that definitely need a re-write.
But — now that Prince William and Prince Harry have found their mates and seem to be happily wed — it’s hard not to recall their beloved mother — who would’ve been overjoyed at the notion that she managed to raise sons — who became the men that will give their wives what she sadly never received during her tumultous marriage.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from the royal wedding — but there’s no doubt that the ceremony exceeded all expectations. And it goes beyond the aesthetic of the bride — who looked incredibly gorgeous — because weddings typically aim to please with the “wow factor” — and then once the party is over — drama ensues — and you’re privy to the dark secrets that were lurking all along.
The wedding of Harry and Meghan was a moving testament to the power of love and how it flows uncontrollably and literally forces the lucky couple to have eyes only for each other.
As he watched his bride make her way to him in pure theatrical fashion that only the royal family can display — you could see the nervousness from before melt away — as he focused on the love of his life — approaching him with the biggest smile on her face.
When she arrived at his side — the overwhelming emotion of finally having her within reach — looking breathtakingly fetching — was too hard to downplay and as his lips moved and his eyes embraced her — it was hard not to be deeply touched by the simplicity of something that very often is mislabeled as complicated.
The adoring gestures that the couple exchanged throughout the ceremony was enhanced by the steady eye contact — holding a language that rightfully excluded everyone else.
There was a swell in my heart — as I watched with envy as they both kissed and then promptly boarded their waiting carriage for the ride of their lifetime.
I’m immensely happy for the Duke and Duchess of Sussex — and my happiness also inspires me to take a long hard look at my romanceless existence.
Some weeks ago — while attending the birthday part for my niece —I had a casual conversation with the mother of one of the kids romping around us. The subject of dating came up and since I was the single one — I had no choice but to do most of the talking.
She was shocked that at my age — I had never had the privilege of a marriage proposal. And maybe the wine encouraged my openness — because I also confessed that I had never dated anyone long enough to even warrant such an honor.
Her reaction wasn’t at all offensive — she seemed to be trying to convey the observation of how someone with the appropriate physical and behavioral attributes — shouldn’t be unable to find a life partner or at the very least come close to achieving that mission.
So — of course watching the royal festivities heightened my insecurities — as it hit me that a woman my age — can’t indulge in this wonderment without accepting that it most likely won’t ever happen to me.
Obviously — I’m not talking about becoming a real life princess. I’m just being sentimental about that little girl — a long time ago — who imagined what it would be like to be dressed up in a gorgeous gown — sporting a tiara — and heading down a flower-strewn aisle to the handsome bloke — waiting with bated breath
Suddenly — I’m mourning the loss of a moment that should’ve happened twenty years ago — or even a decade ago.
I’ve also been shamed into the laziness applied to an area of my life that desperately needs a revival. After two years of battling hormonal disorders — dangerously intense mood swings — and a sex drive that I had a hard time keeping activated— I reached the point where I honestly didn’t give a fuck about fucking anybody ever again.
I had started drinking a lot and eating the kind of shit that will make any woman in her forties — look — forty. I didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror and I hated her enough to remain committed to punishing her.
Thankfully I’m not that person anymore — because the supplements saved my life by restoring my sanity — and increasing my functionality on a level that has hopefully bought me additional years of living.
I’m also ready to be loved.
I never met the guy who looks at me the way Harry looks at his new bride — and the one chap that came close — had already swapped vows with someone else — and even though he admitted that if he had met me earlier — he would’ve chosen me — that wasn’t much of a consolation.
The rest have just been fillers for the real thing and while I know that I’m not getting any younger — I’m also determined not to settle for anything less than what I demand.
Looks can be deceiving — and I’ve personally been bamboozled by the performance of energetic couples who make it look so effortless — which explains why it’s usually too good to be true.
But — I have to admit that watching the happiness of Harry and Meghan was infectious — and has ultimately given me the boost to actually congratulate myself for not surrendering to a loveless marriage — while I strongly consider the possibility of falling in love in that unexpectedly brilliant way — that makes you finally give yourself permission to fill up the space that’s been reserved for far too long.
Maybe the glow will fade by Sunday evening — when the reality of the week hits and I revert back to the state of nonchalance — but I seriously doubt it.
My bloated heart is still beating and that’s a feeling that I haven’t had for awhile — and I have to believe that means something.