Let me see if I get this straight: You don’t want me to enjoy the wedding because it perpetuates the myth that every girl can find her prince. And you don’t want me to enjoy it because it’s a huge expense in what should be a time of fiscal sobriety. And you don’t want me to enjoy it because of the stereotype that girls only care about pretty dresses and flowers and jewelry.
Shall I compare thee to a right gas bag? For thou art as full of foul air. I could almost go with the idea that it’s a huge expense, but the care and feeding of the monarchy is a huge expense. Look, these crazy kids can’t just hop over to Las Vegas and be married by a midget Elvis impersonator then spend the weekend getting drunk by the pool at Circus Circus. There are LAWS governing this marriage. And I’m not talking about one that says you can’t marry your sister. The Queen must give her consent and then announce it to The Parliament. You think you had to go through hurdles because your future mother-in-law friended you on Facebook and saw that picture from college where you were dancing on the pool table at the Kappa Sig house wearing nothing but a vintage Dan Marino jersey and a pair of clear acrylic stripper shoes? What if your future grandmother-in-law had to okay your marriage and then get the whole thing through Congress? Duuude. You’d totally deserve some pretty, sparkly things to wear after that fiasco.
And quit pushing this bullshit about how we’re only interested in a girl finding her prince. I mean just stop it. I don’t want to BE royal. I want to watch them prance around in cool hats. I’ve got bigger fish to fry than trying to make a morality play out of the daughter of a man who sells Peppa Pig Party Piñatas and Justin Bieber Squiggle Straws marrying a guy who, based on the Royal Family Tree, might actually be his own second cousin.
Here’s true romance:
Me: Who’s the guy with the teeth?
Him: Billy Bob Thornton.
Me: Yeah, that’s him.
Does it piss me off to walk through the toy section of Target and find it as segregated by color as 1954 Mississippi? Yes. Is that poor Kate Middleton’s fault? No. We made a social contract years ago that stipulates girl children will only play with things that are pink, purple, and sparkly and boy children will only play with things that are red, black, and have 8,000,000 tiny parts that get stuck in the carpet and you don’t ever find them until you step on one at three in the morning when you get up for water. Girls play with toys that have Pretty, or Dream, or Kitchen in the name and boys only play with toys with Tron, or Mega, or Annihilator in the name. We are breeding creativity out of kids and replacing it with confetti and prime time wrestling. That’s not the fault of the British Monarchy. You need to take that up with Disney and your guilty conscience. You want to start a revolution? Give a kid an apple slice and a refrigerator box instead of a Fruit Gusher and a Transformers Construction Devastator. But quit blaming media for myths you’re just as guilty of perpetuating.
I’m getting up early to watch a circus. I’m going to have tea and crumpets and clotted cream. One morning of pomp and circumstance isn’t going to turn me into ninny. You don’t like it? Don’t watch it. Don’t buy the Wills and Kate Wedding Dish Towel Set. But mind your own damn business and keep the bitching to a dull roar so I can hear the commentary while I sit on the floor in front of the TV and wonder if Queen Elizabeth carries Halls Menthol Lozenges in her purse just like my grandmother did.