My Grass Ain't Green - But it IS Real

As an aspiring writer and self-proclaimed princess, I often apply the principles of creativity to the facts. I don’t really consider my creative interpretation of the truth problematic but rather, I find that it makes for far more interesting storytelling. Anyone who’s had the misfortune of spending more than about 90 seconds in my presence is all too familiar with my slight penchant for the melodramatic – and although I suspect it may be a tad bit irritating to a lot of folks, I’m not particularly motivated to make any changes to my personality at this point in my middle-age.

If you’ve been keeping up with my antics, you likely recognize that, like all vain women of a certain height, weight, and age, I lie about all of the afore-mentioned. All the time. In fact, the only way you’ll get a truthful answer from me on any of these topics is if I’m under oath; under the influence of truth serum; and simultaneously tied to a scale holding my birth certificate in my teeth.

My height and weight are less of an issue these days. Once you’ve been deemed too tall for online dating and dumped via text for being “too big” (thanks a lot, Frog #11), you merely chuckle, write a big fat check to your personal trainer, and persevere. What’s causing me to stress eat these days isn’t my weight, but rather, my birthday which is less than three weeks away and my 20 year high school reunion which follows shortly thereafter.

Why all the talk about honesty and creative math? Well . . . I’m about to be real. In all honesty and sincerity, I neither feel nor act my age. Most of the time, I look around and I think, “Damn, girl! You are one lucky biotch.” (Side note: no idea why I talk to myself in that tone of voice. Believe me – the Elf Therapist and I are working on it, okay?) I’m gainfully employed in a job that allows me to own a home, drive a cute hybrid car, and travel to exotic places like Switzerland just because I feel like it. I have the world’s cutest and naughtiest felonious dog sharing my living quarters. I have a good family, amazing friends, and shit . . . I’m a princess! Seriously – why are the paparazzi stalking famous people when I am flaunting royal awesomeness right out there in the open? Feel free to snap a picture, folks.

So, if my existence is so flipping wonderful, why am I chewing my cuticles and dreading these upcoming milestones? (Or is it milepost? Does it matter? You know what I’m talking about, right?) Before I explain why I’m filled with fear, let me tell you who I blame for all this. Yup, boys and girls – I blame women’s magazines, Brother Edward (the celibate Christian brother who taught us about the birds and the bees), Carrie Bradshaw, and the Lifetime Movie Network.

Here’s the problem. In spite of my feminist mom’s best efforts – and I did enjoy all those field trips to the Tonka Truck Factory – Catholic school, television, fairy tales, Barbie and all kinds of other evil forces conspired against her. Somewhere, I got the crazy-ass idea that the only way to live happily ever after was to get married (preferably in the Church so you could receive the sacrament); procreate within the confines of marriage as Jesus intended to the tune of 2.5 offspring; and why not bring home the bacon and fry it up in the pan, too?

How I got the idea that becoming a Stepford soccer mom was the key to lifelong happiness is a mystery to me. Sure, they have a lovely family to come home to and built-in entertainment in the form of t-ball games and parent-teacher conferences, but when’s the last time they were able to eat a brick of cheese for dinner and wash it down with Grainbelt Premium? When was the last time they laid around on the couch in their underwear, just because they could? And don’t even get me started on the benefits of sole remote control proprietorship.

Like I said, I don’t normally give a frog’s fat behind about the fact that I’m not living the dreams I had for myself when I was a little girl. I had questionable taste back then as evidenced by the preponderance of velour and tube socks in the family photo albums. Left to my own devices, I’m just fine with my lot in life. It’s these “Princess and Guest” invitations that are killing me.

Whether it’s some wedding, reception, or yes – even a reunion, when you’re a single (as opposed to a couple), you’ve got some difficult choices to make. Do you show up alone, sidle up to all the smug couples and flaunt your solo status, complete with full remote control privileges? It’s definitely an option, if you don’t mind being interrogated on the many, many things that make you a freak of nature. You’ll be asked embarrassing questions by virtual strangers who want nothing more than for you to be a divorcee with a few kids at home. Your “never married” status makes everyone uncomfortable. What on earth is wrong with you that no man has ever tried to make an honest woman out of you? At your age, shouldn’t you be in a rush to wed and reproduce? Or are you some kind of kid-hater? You’ll endure a lot of pitying glances and you’ll be left no choice but to drink away your sorrows, which will lead to a whole new theory about your singledom – alcoholism. You leave with the distinct feeling that folks would prefer that you couple up with any frog/slug/creep you can find just so you’ll fit in. Never mind that you’re a fabulous princess . . . could you just stop making everyone else feel awkward?

Option B isn’t a much better plan, although it does allow for plot and character development, since it’s based on a series of lies. In Option B, you bribe one of your best-looking manpanions to pretend that he is madly in love with you for the duration of said event. Since the pretty ones aren’t usually too bright, you may need to script and rehearse the event. It’s also important to establish ground rules, such as:

1. It is not okay to leer at other women or ask for their phone numbers while you are pretending we’re in love.


2. Stay in character at all times! Do not disclose that it’s all an act. This will merely incite more princess pity.


3. Let me do the talking. Just nod and look at me adoringly.


4. Feel free to flash your awesome abs anytime you want. A lot. And then tell me you love me.
   

But it's reality check time. I have a lot of friends who’ve been through painful, nasty divorces. They’ve had their hearts broken. They’re fighting their baby-daddies (or mommies) for child support payments while raising their families on their own. They’re struggling to keep the lights on and put food on the table. They’ve been lied to, betrayed, cheated on . . . and they’re trying to figure out how to keep on keeping on.

I’m not foolish enough to believe that the grass is greener on the other side. I can see over the fence and my neighbor’s lawn looks just as bad as mine. I can see the dog pee stains, the crab grass, and the ants. The difference is this. I put my rotten lawn out on display and let the whole world know it’s not perfect, but this is what a princess’ lawn looks like. Meanwhile, my neighbors are outside with their weed killer and sod, working their fingers to the bone to prove to the world that the lawn they’ve created is the ideal.

If the key to happily ever after lies in a well-manicured lawn, I’m in trouble. I don’t want to spend every waking hour on high alert for weed infestation. I don’t want to be in love with my mulcher. In fact, that might be a great opening line at my 20 year high school reunion. While everyone else whips out pictures of their families, I’ll proudly show off pictures of my dog taking a crap on my lawn . . . because that is how a princess rolls.

© 2011 Princess D