Up until recently, I believed that happiness was kissing a frog and watching him magically transform into a prince. Happiness was getting to finally wear a pretty white dress and a tiara (hey, I am a princess, after all!), registering for everything my little heart desires at my local Super Target, and sharing what's left of my life with someone else. Well, folks, I have some late, breaking news for you. This just in: I may have been wrong.
In my defense, this was one of those lessons that clearly had to be learned the hard way. I've been a clich̩ for 16 months now, and I've been kissing frogs for almost 10. One of them even turned into a prince. And guess what? I still couldn't figure out how to write my fairy tale ending. This is more than just the story of the ill-fated Suitor #1 Рa kind, caring, good-looking man who looked at me and saw a princess Рand how I broke his heart when I ran screaming in the other direction. It's also the story of how I got everything I thought I wanted . . . and realized that I spent all this time wishing on someone else's star.
I thought I wanted that partner, the constant companion. You know, someone to go grocery shopping with, someone to go to church with, someone to take long walks with, and someone to just be with. Suitor #1 fit the bill perfectly. He was attentive and interested. Maybe too attentive and interested, to be honest, since he was calling and emailing and texting me non-stop, a characteristic that I initially found endearing. His attentiveness lost some of its charm when I failed to respond to an email within a two-hour period of time (I was busy working) and he went into crisis mode. Literally, the poor guy thought I was dead or something. Suddenly, communicating with him became a chore instead of a joy. I felt pressured to respond quickly, lest he panic, and I resented the interruption to my day. On the plus side, he never cringed when I asked him to walk the dog with me and he was always ready to drop everything and run to Target with me.
Suitor #1 wanted to spend every possible moment with me. In the beginning, this was charming and delightful. As a woman who travels extensively for her job and who is only at home three days a week, I have to cram a lot into a compressed period of time. Not only do I have a family who occasionally likes to see my shining face, but even princesses have to visit the dentist, the doctor, and the hair salon. And, after losing nearly every friend I had while shacking up with Mr. Wrong, I rebuilt a small circle of amazing friends and I wanted to be able to spend time with them, too. Suitor #1 didn't understand why I needed alone time. He wanted to pick me up from the airport on Thursday nights and not let me out of his sight again until Monday mornings. While it's possible that this level of devotion is sweet and endearing (please see previous paragraph on calling, excessive) – and let's be clear, as a princess, I wanted undying devotion – I can't lie to you. It felt a little smothery. It is no coincidence that "Prisoner of Love" is the title of several different hit songs, folks.
Suitor #1 was a man in love. He did all the right stuff. He took an interest in my life. He invited me into his life. I met his tadpoles . . . er, children! Repeatedly. Suddenly, Friday nights consisted of takeout pizza and Diary of a Wimpy Kid. We got pancakes at Perkins. We took the kids to the zoo, mini-golfing, to the park . . . And we had grown-up dates, too. Suitor #1 is tall, dark, handsome, and good at fixing things. (This is important because I can't figure out how to set the clock inside my car. I am frequently puzzled by things like furnace filters, double-sided tape, and light bulbs.) He is kind, and caring, and he has a good sense of humor. His main flaw? He has lousy taste in women, as it turns out. Because he picked me, did all the right stuff, and I still high-tailed it out of there as fast as humanly possible.
As it turns out, after years of suffering from subterranean self-esteem and recoiling at the thought of being alone, I've developed a fondness for "Independent Princess". In fact, I owe poor Frog #6 an apology. Although he did make me question my wit, charm, and cuteness levels – since I thought he was just not that into me, or, conversely, gay – I have to admit . . . Frog #6 was almost the perfect match for me in every way. He had his own life (and, if you believe the bullshit I'm making up in my head, he may have also had his own alternative lifestyle!), and therefore, he was not interested in constant companionship. He would, however, reserve the occasional weekend night for us eat, drink, and be merry. Since these are my three very favorite activities on earth, you rarely have to twist my arm to get me to RSVP with a great big yes. Frog #6 wasn't secretly planning our wedding or anything of the sort. He called or texted or emailed just often enough - not daily but more frequently than quarterly – and I always had a good time with him. He was just a good-looking amphibian, looking for a "friends with benefits" situation, and for two well-educated, articulate people, we somehow never managed to get around to having that conversation. So, I used my royal powers of mind control to turn him gay and then found myself on the opposite end of the smothery spectrum with Suitor #1. So, Frog #6, for the record . . . sorry for making you gay. And thanks for being my friend anyway.
Let's take a moment to recap, shall we? I found Mr. Wonderful and I bolted. Frog #6 is starting to look like the frog of my dreams – not because we are well-matched, but because his ambivalence means that it is virtually impossible for him to kill independent princess. And, yes, folks – I am exaggerating here. I'm not suggesting that Frog #6 and I take a little hop down memory lane or anything. I'm merely comparing and contrasting so that you get the full picture of just how wrong I was. Am. Whatever.
Before breaking it off with Suitor #1, I consulted my oracle, the elf-therapist, for counsel. At first, he wanted to engage in a lengthy dialogue about my feelings and all that yackety-schmackety. I let him blather on for nearly ten minutes, realized that I pay him by the hour, and when he came up for air, I rudely demanded that he stop asking questions and just tell me what to do, damn it! Under normal circumstances, the Elf refuses to tell me what to do under the guise of trying to help me grow as a person or something like that. In this particular instance, he was all too happy to tell me what to do and furthermore, when, where, and how to do it. Bottom line . . . he suggested a split. And since I do whatever the Elf says, I complied.
It was a difficult conversation with Suitor #1. There were tears (his) and firm boundaries (mine). While breaking the news of the break-up was hard to do, when I was done, I felt strangely free. Would I miss Suitor #1? Maybe. But as it turns out, I missed me even more.
Normal people celebrate Independence Day once a year. For those of you who are keeping score, this escapade marks my 2nd
personal declaration of independence this year alone. And it's only September! It's been just about a month since this princess rejoined the ranks of single women everywhere. And for the very first time in my entire adult life, I'm not lamenting my lack of husband and 2.5 kids. You know what? As it turns out, I'm awfully danged loveable! I don't have to settle for the first prince who rides up in a battered minivan. Instead, I'm celebrating my singledom with a vengeance. Do I still long for the prince and the pretty dress? Maybe. But as it turns out, you don't need a prince – or even an excuse – to get dolled up in a nice dress for a night on the town. Watch this space for more . . . there is an independent princess on the loose!
© 2010 Princess D
