From Princess to Missus: The End of the Frog Blog

In 13 days, I will walk down the aisle, pucker up, and never have to kiss another frog again. It's a monumental achievement for this lazy blogger and princess-in-her-own mind. As I obsess about things like centerpieces, sand ceremonies, and whether or not my bustle makes my butt look big, I find myself sleeping very little and instead, spending time replaying Princess D's greatest hits (and misses) in my head.

The beauty of wedding planning is that it is all-consuming. Even if you outsource the details to a professional like I did, you'll still find yourself neck-deep in decisions. Selecting plates and flatware was a task on par with taking the GMAT; a fact whose irony isn't lost on me since I currently possess approximately 194 forks, none of which match. If you swing by my palace for a meal, you won't find matching dishes or cloth napkins. Let's be clear: until recently, you also wouldn't have found a table at which to eat. Wedding planning also introduces you to all sorts of interesting new concepts and lingo, which begs the question, "Am I truly a rube?" Why wasn't this covered at my useless liberal arts college? Between making life-altering decisions about music selection and linens, sweating to the oldies with my personal trainer so my dress will fit, and trying not to get fired from my day job, I haven't had a lot of time to consider anything beyond the wedding . . . like the fact that I am getting married. For better or worse; in sickness and health; 'til death do us part.

It's a little ironic and a whole lot sadder that we pour so much time, money, and energy into creating the perfect wedding instead of focusing on what really matters, which is creating a marriage. It's really not all that hard to clean yourself up, put on a big dress, keep your elbows off the table, dance around a little, and throw a good party. Frankly, that's the easy part. What's not to love when you're showered, made-up, and looking radiant in a tiara? But is any of us really so lovely or loveable when we're rotting on the couch in mismatched sweats, a baseball cap, and we can't quite remember the last time we spritzed our pits? Or when one of us keeps the other one awake by snoring like a pack of wild sows (not guilty – but I can point fingers a dog and a dude who are both guilty as charged) at 3 AM? Or when someone's (guilty) incessant shedding hair causes the vacuum cleaner to spontaneously combust?

What right do I have to march down the aisle? I've screwed up every relationship I've ever been in. I'm stubborn; I'm selfish; and I am universally messy. I am perfectly content to live in my own filth; to eat nothing but Lean Cuisines and cheese; and to waste an entire day in front of the TV watching Lifetime movies. I'm moody; I'm chemically imbalanced; I'm sensitive even though I pretend I'm not; I cry at Subaru commercials. My senior prom date turned out to be gay. I spent 14 years in a relationship with Mr. Wrong because I was too afraid to walk away – and I tricked myself into thinking it was completely okay to treat him as terribly as I did. Ever the optimist, I figured there was life after Mr. Wrong and I began dating again. Because I couldn't handle the rejection and the truth, I turned my dates into caricatures, called them frogs, and mocked them publicly in a blog that may or may not actually be read by anyone beyond my immediate circle of friends. I radiated loneliness and almost ruined perfectly good friendships with male non-frogs because we let mutual loneliness and red wine trick us into leaving the friend zone. And because I'm kind of an asshole, I blogged about that too.

Long after the party is over, it's the marriage – the love and commitment we have for each other that really matters. In spite of the snoring and the shedding and all the things we do that drive each other nuts, we're committed. Even though I don't say it as often as I should and I probably don't show it as much as I should, I really did kiss a frog and watch him transform into a prince. One of the very best things about my prince is that he doesn't want me to be anyone other than exactly who I am. I don't have to apologize for all the mistakes I made before we met or put on an act. I can just be me – no matter who or how that happens to show up – and I know that I have a partner who will support me no matter what. Worth waiting almost 40 years for? I think so.

We're smart enough to know that our wedding – which is taking place in a castle and which may or may not involve a horse and carriage and which will be a lovely, amazing celebration of our love – isn't happily ever after. It is, in the words of Robert Fulghum or maybe Dr. Seuss, the recognition that "we're all a little weird and life is weird. When we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and full into mutually satisfying weirdness and call it love – true love." There is absolutely no weirdo I would rather be with from this day forward, for better or worse (but hopefully better), for richer or poorer (but hopefully richer) in sickness and in health, to love, to cherish, and to be weird with, until death do us part. That, my friends, is the best reason I can think of to throw one hell of a big party.

Thus concludes the story of how this princess kissed a whole lotta frogs until she found her prince.

 

To my faithful readers . . .The "frog blog" helped me maintain some semblance of sanity in what was brewing to be one ugly midlife crisis – and as I prepare to write a new chapter in my own story, it's time to close this one by retiring the frog blog. Thank you for cheering me on during this journey, and most of all, for making sure that I never took myself too seriously. With love and always with a tiara, Princess D.

 

© 2013 Princess D