Vain Vs. Lazy – A Princess Gets Less Fat

There are some people in this world who claim that a good old-fashioned workout, complete with grunting, moving heavy objects, jumping, and running around is fun. These are the same people who've created a market for iPod armbands; gym bags; yoga mats; and energy drinks. They roll around in muddy pits and do things with the word "tough" or "iron" in the title as a pastime. These people are not like me in the least little bit, and as the reigning princess in these here parts, I hereby declare them physically fit freaks.

I don't start my day with an incredible, edible egg – a wonderful source of protein. The very smell of an egg cooking activates my gag reflex. I don't leap out of bed, slap on my sneakers, and jog around the neighborhood. Instead, I hit the snooze somewhere between three and 30 times; drag myself out of bed (usually bumping a shin, knee, or elbow into some inanimate household object in the process); and begin injecting myself with caffeine in order to face the prospect of being upright and alert for the next 14 hours.

Thankfully, I'm slightly more vain than I am lazy (although it's a close call), which means that although I generally eschew healthy living, I really don't want to become Jabba the Hut's body double. However, because I am quite lazy and frankly, I don't like to participate in any activity that will cause me to pant, sweat, stink, look silly or mess up my hair, I've avoided morbid obesity through a variety of women's magazine endorsed short-cuts for most of my life.

I'm no small princess – I stand at about 5'11 inches tall, a height and fact that almost caused my prince to opt out of our first date. While it can be difficult to buy pants with a 34 inch inseam, I'm awfully glad for the extra real estate, because it means that my weight can fluctuate by about 20 pounds before it's really noticeable to the general public. At 16 years old, I wore a size 14 jean and extra large shirts – and thus began my eternal battle between lazy and vain.

In the 16 or so years since then (I'm a princess, not a mathematician – and furthermore, I just told you I'm vain as hell, so if you honestly think I'm going to shout out my true age, you should pour yourself another gin and tonic!), I've been as small as a size 6 and as large as a size 16, and every single size in between. I've done Weight Watchers (both before and after the introduction of Points), I've cleansed, detoxed, joined Slim for Life (now Slimgenics); banned carbs; embraced carbs; gone vegetarian; and the list goes on and on and on. If you wonder why the diet industry is such a money-maker, I assure you, I've been doing my part to keep it afloat.

And until recently, my size wasn't a problem. When I met my prince, I was a happy size 10. I exercised a little and life was good. When we got serious, my body convened a top secret meeting where it agreed that it really wanted to be a size 12. (Or larger). Love, pizza, and buffalo wings expanded my waistline – and none of my previous get-thin-quick schemes were working anymore. In fact, with each new technique I tried, I seemed to get bigger and puffier.

To be clear – big and puffy may be desirable qualities in a wedding gown, but they are not desirable qualities in a would-be bride. When the Weight Watchers, the detox, and the fish oil all failed me, I knew I had no other choice. I was going to have to do this the hard way.

I've read enough women's magazines to know that at my . . . uh . . . middle age, I was cursed with slowing metabolism and muscle loss. Since I never found any muscle to speak of in the first place, this seemed like a problem. (I am, after all, the girl who phoned her brother in tears because I couldn't pick up a bag of dog chow at Petco.) I was doomed. I was going to have to do strength training.

Since I am morally opposed to looking foolish in public (unless I'm drunk, but that's another story) and because I really, really hate lifting heavy objects, I employed my famous outsourcing strategy. When in doubt, hire a professional. If I could have outsourced the actual strength training to someone else, I would have but fears of being a fat bride motivated me to keep my initial appointment with my local LA Fitness. It was there that I met Trainer Dan and it was there that I learned that 1/3 of my body is comprised of fat.

For two months, I saw more of Trainer Dan than my own prince – and he also had the dubious pleasure of listening to me pant, moan, and on a couple of occasions, burst forth with some awfully dirty talk for a princess. And in two months and over 20 workouts, I lost an inch off my neck. And that's it. Since neck fat was hardly my primary concern (although after losing an inch of it, I began to wonder if my neck actually as fatter than I realized, inviting a whole new set of neuroses to the party), you can imagine my disgust and disappointment.

Even so, I kept going. Actually, I kept going because I was locked into a personal training contract and they were going to charge me whether I went or not, and I am nearly as frugal as I am vain and lazy. Trainer Dan left me suddenly, making me even angrier, and I had to break in a whole new trainer.

That was in June. Fast forward to September and I still hate exercising. It's hard, it hurts, and it pisses me off that I am so damn uncoordinated. There are weeks when I feel like all I do is work and workout. There are days when a 7.5 pound weight feels like lifting a Volkswagen above my head and when I watch the clock slowly tick by every second of my 60 minute torture session.

And there have been a few small victories along the way, too. I've lost 13 pounds. (Thank you, Trainer Eric!) I'm still a size 12 (not a victory) which leads me to believe that most of the weight I've lost has been in my fingers, neck, and earlobes but at some point, the fat has to come off the core, right? I started and finished a 5k without dropping dead, and even managed to jog about 2/3 of it, in spite of the fact that there was clearly marked shortcut available!
And I bought a wedding dress that I love, complete with a tiara.

I may be sweaty, I may be clumsy, and I may be bigger than I'd like . . . but whether I'm in workout gear or wedding gear, I will always be a princess.

 

Copyright © 2012 Princess D. All Rights Reserved.

To Nate, With Love

Just because I'm a princess with a fairly charmed life doesn't guarantee me immunity from things like bad hair days, hypertension, foot odor (why???), and mood swings. Everyone is entitled to an off day every now and again, but as a princess, I struggle with the bad hair days. The voice inside my head – who, by the way, sounds awfully similar to the voice of one K.W. who tormented me in grade school and ultimately married my high school crush – criticizes me. She says things like, "Oh – would you look at the weepy princess crying because her tiara is on crooked! You realize there are people out there without tiaras who are actually struggling, right? Why don't you shut up your stupid ugly face?"

Let me be clear. I hate that voice inside my head. She's loud, incessant, mean and nasty. And she has an incredibly foul mouth for an imaginary frenemy. She is the voice that says, "I told you not to eat that second piece of pizza, fatso!" when I struggle to fasten the button on my pants in the morning. When I lay my weary bones on the couch to catch up on current events on TV (translation: checking out the latest cat-fights on whatever season of The Real Housewives is on), her judgmental eye surveys the house and suggests that I get my lazy tail up off the couch and run a vacuum or wash a dish. She criticizes my clothes, hair, makeup, lifestyle choices, how I drive, and my inability to clip coupons. No matter how hard I work, no matter how successful I might become, it is never enough for this insufferable bitch.

Here's the problem. That bitch? Well, she's me. And the fact that I've resorted to name-calling and "adult-language" is just further proof that we are one in the same. For those of you asking if there's a point in here somewhere, there is. When I look in the mirror, I don't always see a princess. When I look around my house or plan for my weekend getaway with my handsome prince, I don't always take time to appreciate all my good fortune. I have been known to see the glass as . . . gasp . . . half-empty. And then proceed to get really angry about it. I watch Lifetime movies and cry – not at the crappy over-acting but at the misfortunes endured by the characters. I come straight home from work, put on my jammies, and eat carbs as if I'm preparing to run a marathon when we all know that the furthest I'm going is from the couch to the fridge to grab another beer.

Sometimes the bad hair days are worse than others. These are the days I can barely get out of bed; the days where even the idea of getting dressed and leaving the house feel akin to climbing Mount Everest. These are the days when I look at my life and instead of celebrating all the amazing gifts I've been given and all the opportunities I still have to look forward to, I throw a giant pity party and curse myself for not running a marathon, learning to cook, having a baby, learning Japanese, growing my own organic vegetables, composting, volunteering more in the community, and you can fill in the blanks with pretty much any and everything else.

That, my friends, is known as a form of depression. The nagging voice inside my head that yells at me; the desire to curl up in the fetal position, cry, and eat chocolate until I burst; the fatigue that is so great that even my eyelashes hurt . . . these are all symptoms of depression, which is not a state of mind but an illness. The only differences between depression and the common cold are the stigma and the amount of snot. If you ignore the common cold, you'll infect everyone around you with your filthy germs and you're probably going to have to wipe your nose on your sleeve since you won't be armed with Puffs Plus. When you have a cold, you drink orange juice, you take Nyquil, you sniffle a lot, and you do whatever it takes to feel better. When you have depression, you should take care of yourself just like you do when you've got the sniffles. If you're feeling really lousy for any extended period of time, you're not just having a bad hair day. Everyone gets the blues every once in a while – but when blue is the color du jour and you can't remember the last time you saw the world with rose colored glasses, it's time to take action.

Much like that annoying cold that gets passed around the office or daycare, where one person gets a cough, someone else has a sore throat, and you get both plus a side of inflamed sinuses, depression symptoms are different in everyone and can change over time.

Bottom line? I am a princess, darn it – and I have an amazing life thanks to the grace of God, the support of my family and friends, and no small amount of hard work. You know what else I have? I have a form of clinical depression and I have some nice blue pills and a standing appointment with an elfintherapist to ensure that I continue to get out of bed and fight the good fight every day.

This post is dedicated to all those who are managing depression; struggling with it; or fighting it. This post is especially dedicated to Nathan Corbett, who battled bipolar disorder and depression but lost his fight at the age of 27. He would have turned 39 years old this Saturday.

 

©2012 Princess D

 

White Girl Problems: A Fairy Tale

As a self-proclaimed princess, my attitude is more "I'd rather not be bothered lifting a finger and exerting any of my royal energy on stuff that you commoners do yourselves" than do-it-myself. I've embraced a very strengths-based lifestyle that involves a lot of outsourcing of tasks that, frankly, I lack the knowledge, skills, ability and/or raw talent to perform myself. And yes, I even outsource some tasks I most certainly could perform on my own but would prefer not to. This includes but is not limited to the domestic arts such as cleaning and food preparation. I like to think that my attitude is good not only for my wellbeing, but also good for the economy and the general health of those who are forced to interact with me.

When you're a princess in a kingdom of one, you get to call all the shots. Beer and popcorn for dinner? Sure! Own 45 pairs of underwear to reduce the amount of time spent doing laundry? You betcha. (Side note: I am clearly the princess of some Fargo-based kingdom based on my lexicon.) Now that my kingdom has expanded to include a prince, life has changed a little. I try not to leave my bras hanging on various doorknobs, for example, and instead of leaving a thick layer of multihued hair on the bathroom counter, I wipe up after myself. I unplug my curling iron instead of leaving it on all day in case of a hair emergency. I don't eat Klondike bars for dinner anymore. I no longer purchase fat-free cottage cheese. Life is full of compromises.

Since becoming engaged three months ago, the prince and I started wedding planning and I quickly realized that the actual planning fell into the category of things I would prefer to outsource, and I took steps to hire an expert ASAP. I accidentally forgot to include the prince in this decision making process and had to quickly put on the brakes when I realized that (drumroll, please), we had a difference of opinion. The prince – in addition to his many fine qualities – is extremely cautious with money. Now, I'm not setting fire to dollar bills or anything, but he is so frugal that I look like a spendthrift by comparison.

After much cajoling and some threats, the prince grudgingly agreed to talk to a wedding planner, and I continued interviewing professionals until I found one whom I clicked with. It helped that she read my entire blog and told me she "had a vision" for my special day. And, okay, it also helped that she marketed the package she eventually sold me with the pithy tag line, "Just Show Up." The prince met her, we negotiated a little, and then he wrote a big fat check. (Sorry. My money is tied up in real estate. Because I am both princess and slumlord, but that's a whole other blog.)

That, my friends, is the last time I laid eyes on the wedding planner – a woman whom I grew very fond of in a very short period of time. She did have a vision for our special day and she thoughtfully suggested three potential locations for the big event. A princess needs a castle, folks. We set up site visits, the prince and I rearranged our schedules, and off we went. Alone. Because the professional had a fever.

Fast forward two weeks. We fell in love with the very first site we saw. We want to sign a contract. But the planner is out of commission. She's in the hospital. With pneumonia. For the record, I think this is a terrible turn of events and I'm concerned for her health. My family and my groom, however, think I've been swindled. They were all skeptical of the wedding planning business from the get-go, and my inability to perform simple tasks like set a date and identify a location for the wedding are worrisome to these already naturally anxious people.

I've dreamed about a wedding for as long as I can remember – but as a little girl, I never imagined disappearing wedding planners, day-long debates about the invitee list that would result in midday drinking to dull the pain, or the horrors of buying a plus-sized wedding gown. In my little girl daydreams, it was all tiaras, cake, and glass slippers, which leads me to wonder . . . did Cinderella have to plan her own damn wedding?

© 2012 Princess D

No one in the Fairy Tales Belongs to a Gym. Hmmmmm.

I'd always suspected that the epilogue to all these fairy tales might, in fact, feature some of mundane ups and downs that the rest of us mere mortals go through on a daily basis. Of course, I also optimistically hoped that, after finding my prince, I would somehow be exempt from bad days going forward. Kind of like time off for good behavior, if you know what I mean.

Well, Princess . . . while I admire your optimism, that's just plain wishful thinking. Sure, you've found your prince – and he even put a ring on it! Finding true love doesn't provide a magic wand wherein your rude boss becomes polite; your lazy colleagues become motivated; slow people with piles of coupons don't smash into you with their carts at SuperTarget and inevitably get in line in front of you; and you won't suddenly be immune to seasickness, headaches, or learn to swim. (Trust me on this one. Some of these lessons were learned the hard way.)

What true love does guarantee is that you'll have someone by your side when you're having a crappy day. There will be someone whom you can cling to and ultimately try to drown when you're flopping around like a half-dead crappie in the water (true story) who won't have you arrested for attempted murder. And suddenly, there is someone not covered in fur whose opinion counts when you are facing big life decisions.

We've been engaged for a whole month, and the whole thing feels a little surreal. I am thrilled to be spending the rest of my life with a true prince of a man, and I am excited about playing dress up and finding a socially acceptable opportunity to sport a tiara. But I'm not going to lie to you. I think it might be easier to climb Mt. Everest than to plan and pay for a wedding without losing my mind. Wedding planners, hats off to you. Brides who are planning their nuptials without the help of a professional . . . you're killing me. Yes, you are. Because I am comparing myself to you and wondering why I can't summon up the energy, courage, or whatever it takes to call a damn wedding planner and you're practicing calligraphy; taking ballroom dance lessons; and shaming me via newfangled social media forums like www.pinterest.com. How are you so sure about where to have the wedding, what kind of dress you want, how many people to invite, whether to have chicken or beef? Darn you, perfect brides . . . I want your secrets. And I want them now.

In the meantime, I've discovered that true love, combined with a shared love of food (especially pizza, buffalo wings, and nachos) has reintroduced me to the clothes in the back of my closet, also known as "double-digit sizes". So, before I call a wedding planner, select a dress style, pick a date, or anything else, I've decided to focus my attention on what's really important . . . getting back into my skinny jeans.

While I hate to disappoint, there will be no wedding updates, no tales of "Princess turned Bridezilla", until I banish these XXL sweatpants to the back of the closet or give them to the Salvation Army. You can, however, watch this space for updates on my "Pedal off the Pounds" progress. This shall include but will not be limited to things like whining about my weight; complaining about lack of motivation; cataloging my middle-aged aches and pains; and even some exciting details about how much water I've consumed and how many veggies I ate. And there will likely be an ode to wine forthcoming, since I have sworn off the grape until zipping my pants is no longer the cornerstone of my strength training.

Now, if I can just stop thinking about cake, we might be on to something.

 

© 2012 Princess D

Fairytale Ending!

Now that my life has become more than merely a series of horrendously bad first, second, and third dates, I've been spending my free time doing all the normal stuff that people in relationships do . . . watching DVDs, eating pizza, hanging out, talking, and all that jazz. And let me be clear. I've never been happier in my life. However, there appears to be a negative correlation between my ability to write humorous blog entries and my increased happiness. And for that, dear readers, I apologize.

If you're just catching up on the antics of our heroine, I'll bring you up to speed. In August, I kissed a frog who magically transformed into a prince. Of course, being skeptical and somewhat of a connoisseur in the frogs gone wrong category, I was hesitant to cue the celebratory parade right away. But I'm not going to lie to you – your princess has finally met her match, so last night, when the prince handed a big sparkly (and yes, princess cut!) diamond ring to me, I said yes and promptly went into shock.

Even while in shock, I knew there were a few phone calls I had to make – to my parents and a few other "bffs" out there. And that, dear readers, is where things get entertaining. Indulge me for a moment while I replay some of the highlights for you.

Highlight #1: Call to my mom & dad

Me: "Hi, sorry to call so late. But I wanted to tell you I just got a diamond ring from the man!"

Mom: "That's nice. What does that mean?"

Me, in exasperated tone of voice: "Isn't it obvious? He quit his day job and is moving to Africa to harvest blood diamonds!"

Mom: "Ha ha ha. Congratulations!" Muffled sounds of my dad talking over me in the background. "Hold on a second, honey . . . Dad, Princess is engaged!"

Dad: "To who?" Followed by muffled sounds between Mom and Dad. Unsure of the nature of this dialogue.

Me: "Is it any wonder I have spent the GDP of a small country in therapy bills?"

Mom: "Well, this is just wonderful. When's the big day?"

Me: "Mom, I've had the ring on for all of 35 seconds. I haven't planned the blessed event yet. But I promise, you'll be invited."

Mom: "Ha, ha. I just woke up. Be nice."

 

Highlight #2: Call FROM my mom & dad, approximately five minutes after hanging up from the first call

Me: "Hello?"

Mom: "Your dad . . ."

Me: "Huh?"

Mom: "Your dad had a premonition this would happen."

Me: "Really? Then why did he ask 'to who' earlier?"

Mom: "You know he thinks he's funny. How cute is this premonition?"

 

Highlight #3: Call from The Snake

Me: "Snake, I'm engaged!"

Snake: "Will you be showing for the wedding? And also, make sure you get a prenup."

Me: "What is the matter with you?"

Snake: "I'm kidding! Congratulations! But seriously . . . are you pregnant or something? And when's the big day?"

    

Highlight #4: Overheard during call to the Man's parents

Man: "Well, I did it!"

Man's Dad: "So . . . did she accept?"

Man: "Why else would I be calling you?"

Man's Dad: "So – when's the big day?"

 

Highlight #5: Call to one of my BFF's

Me: "Did you see the text I sent you?"

BFF: "I sure did. Beautiful. But the heat is out at my house. Can you guys come fix it?"

Me: "On the way."

[20 minutes later when we arrive . . . ]

BFF: "Oh, snap! This means you're engaged! I just thought you had a new ring!"

 

I am confident that this is just the beginning of a series of entertaining and awkward discussions, and I look forward to all of them. My fairytale is coming true! Does this mean I'll stop blogging? Sorry, folks – but the blog shall continue, however, it may require a new name since I'm officially resigning as Princess of Frog Kissing. I am soliciting recommendations for a new blog name to celebrate this new chapter. And in other news . . . HOLY SHIT! My fairytale is coming true!

© 2011 Princess D

Irony . . . or How I Found a Prince Lurking in a Basement

Dear readers . . . I have some news. You may want to sit down for this. Take a deep breath, folks. I have some news.

This princess is done kissing frogs.

I haven’t followed through with my threats to join a convent or become a lesbian nun, and I haven’t thrown in the towel, choosing to become a crazy cat lady instead of facing yet another date from hell. In an ironic twist of fate (FYI God – your warped sense of humor isn’t lost on me), the very minute I became comfortable and secure with my singleton status . . . Prince Charming showed up.

I never expected to meet my prince hanging out in one of my best friend’s basements. When my domestic projects were completed with the installation of the infamous dishwasher by what I lovingly referred to as some eye-candy on New Year’s Eve, I didn’t realize that the plumber crack I was admiring might belong to the man of my dreams. A month later, when I stumbled out of my best friend’s bedroom sporting a helluva hangover, wild woman of Borneo hair, and old lady jammies only to have an awkward early morning bathroom encounter with a hottie, I never once thought, “I bet we’ll go on a date one day.” But that’s what transpired.

I met a dandy, handy man last fall – and we became friends, first on Facebook and then in real life. The first time I met him, he thought I was your run-of-the-mill desperate tramp who’d been lured into his roommate, The Snake’s lair, and he therefore spoke to me in a rude and patronizing tone. I gave him a quick once over and decided that although he was pretty hot, he was immune to my feminine wiles. Since he also insulted both me and my intelligence within five minutes of meeting me, I wrote him off as gay – because as we all know, the only men who don’t fall prey to my charms are gay. Or vampires.

This is hardly the stuff of fairy tales, I know. My handy prince was in a serious relationship with someone and as you know, I was revenge dating both at and below my level. Fast forward to two months ago, when Handy broke up with his serious gal pal and I jokingly said, “Great – now you can take me out on a date.” Instead of viewing this opportunity as the grand prize it is, he laughed and said, “I don’t think so. You are WAY too tall for me.” Seriously?!? I retorted, and I quote, “You can try to resist me, but I will grow on you like a fungus. Just wait and see.” And it was on like Donkey Kong from that point forward.

I wore him down, as I knew I would. I also promised to wear flats on our first date. Don’t worry, though – Handy meets all of Princess D's Nine Commandments. (He’s less than an inch shorter than me, but to listen to him talk, I’m some kind of mutant freak.) Several glasses of iced tea and a pizza later, and I’d changed his mind about tall gals. Told you I’d grow on him like a fungus!

A month ago, I kissed a frog in the front seat of an Audi . . . and before my very eyes, the “ribbiting” stopped and a prince appeared. (Interestingly enough, his “castle” borders a moat-like swamp and there is a preponderance of frogs lurking around at all times. Did you need further proof of God’s ironic sense of humor?)

Has your princess found her prince? How many ways can she dream up to screw this up? How much weight will she gain eating pizza and not going to the gym now that she’s no longer revenge dating? Will she ever tell the truth about her age?

Watch this space for the answer to these burning questions! And to my prince . . . the best is yet to come.

© 2011 Princess D

Unanswered Prayers

It might be the back-to-back episodes of Behind the Music I’ve been watching. It could be a side effect of purchasing and listening to that 1980’s Power Ballads CD. (And okay – I may have listened to it repeatedly while singing alone to Cinderella at the top of my tone deaf lungs.) Maybe it’s because I am flirting with middle age, but I would like to suggest that the most likely cause of my current nostalgia is my upcoming 20 year high school reunion.

20 years ago, I was an awkward teenager with a bad spiral perm, way too many pairs of acid-washed jeans, and an interesting collection of tobacco-company sponsored free t-shirts. Was I dating Joe Camel or something? Was my nickname Virginia Slim? (Doubtful given my plus-size at that juncture.) I assure you that the answer to these burning questions is no and no, yet I somehow managed to be photographed in an exclusive collection of casual-wear that advertised smoking. No wonder I’m no fashionista, even today.

At 17, I didn’t have a drivers’ license but I had a job where I earned minimum wage and ate my body weight in Reese’s Peanut Butter cups at the local convenience store. I got good grades without doing much heavy lifting, and aside from a foul mouth and messy bedroom, I’d like to think I was a good kid. (In fact, let’s go with that unless we hear otherwise from my parents, eh?) Although I’m more than a little horrified by the hair and makeup choices of my misspent youth, through the miracles of Facebook, I’m forced to confront these images on a daily basis as mean-spirited middle aged folks with scanners tag images of 17 year old me.

As I look into the red-eyes of my 17 year old self, I can remember how uncomfortable I was in my own skin back then. I like to joke that I didn’t go through puberty until I was 24, but in many ways, that’s no exaggeration. At 17, all I wanted to do was fit in, blend in, and get by – all of which were hard to do at nearly six feet tall and clumsy. Being smart and goal-oriented didn’t help too much either, since I had more in common with the parents of the kids my age than my own peer group. What I remember most, though, is what it felt like to be a 17 year old with a massive crush on a boy who couldn’t, wouldn’t, and didn’t feel the same way about me.

Neither frog nor snake nor tadpole, his name was Pete, and he was the prototype of the all-around American good guy in every John Hughes movie. He wasn’t just captain of the wrestling team, honor roll student, choir star, and homecoming king, but he was also the president of our church youth group. He did volunteer work, attended bible study, and . . . . he was nice to me. A sucker for chick lit and crappy Molly Ringwald movies even then, I fell head over heels for this poor boy. I can still remember his phone number and his birthday.

I’d love to tell you that Pete took pity on me and took me out on a date to put me out of my misery, but instead, he dated the girl who tormented me all through elementary school and beat me up on the playground in 5th grade. Not only did he date her, but he committed sinful acts with her that resulted in an unplanned pregnancy during our senior year! 20 years later, they’re happily married with five kids, a dog, and a house in the suburbs.

Pete broke my heart a million times . . . and I could not be more relieved. I assure you – I would be a lousy mom and there is absolutely no way I would withstand five (!) pregnancies, labors, and child-births without a hostage situation or casualties. While Pete and Mrs. Pete are clipping coupons, coaching youth soccer, and tooling around town in their minivan, I have sole ownership of the remote control and a healthy bank account. I’m sure it wasn’t easy starting a family and a marriage at 18 years old – and it was certainly not a proud moment for our church youth group when our president’s premarital sex was on display for all to see – but Pete persevered. And also managed to lose all his hair! Since he is both highly fertile and completely bald, it’s pretty easy to breathe a sigh of relief and, in the words of the great Garth Brooks, thank God for unanswered prayers.

Since Pete was immune to my feminine wiles, I pined away for him, perfecting the art of stalking while keeping my Friday nights and weekends free in case he changed his mind. And that, dear readers, is how I wound up attending college, getting a useless liberal arts degree, falling in love with a boy from my high school, having my heart broken for real, meeting Mr. Wrong, attending therapy, and becoming a princess. (In my own mind) . 17 year old me used to sign “Mr. & Mrs. Pete” all over my Trapper Keeper, cut pages out of Modern Bride as I planned our imaginary wedding, and incessantly called him from our house phone, complete with cord, hanging up at the sound of his voice. This was before caller-id, kids. (Note to all frogs and potential princes: although I perfected the art of stalking, I am not an actual stalker. Really. This is not grounds for rejection.)

Back in 1991, Pete’s rejection stung a little bit – but today, I couldn’t be happier at the way my life has turned out. Of course, there is a little part of me that is pretty sure that Pete is gay (because as we know, I possess the universally appealing trifecta of big boobs, small waist, big paycheck). Had Pete not been gay – or in love with a very, very, very mean girl who wasn’t me – I might not have gone to college; met my soul mate and spent beautiful time with him before he passed away; or bought a home. I probably wouldn’t be in therapy, either, but then again – if I had five kids, all bets are off.

The great thing about being 30-something is that I’m not 17. What’s that old saying? Youth is wasted on the young. I may have wrinkles, gray hair, a therapist, and a vast array of creams and ointments designed to counteract the aging process, but I’m pretty secure about who I am today. Your princess works hard; loves fiercely; believes that everyone deserves a second (or third) chance; is educated; is blessed with health and wealth beyond her wildest dreams; is tall enough to reach stuff on the top shelf and confident enough to wear high heels anyway. I’m not the shy, nervous nerd I was back in 1991 – and just the other day, my personal trainer told me that I’m “pretty hot for an old lady”. In fact, in the words of my four best friends, John, Paul, George & Ringo . . . “it’s getting better all the time!”

© 2011 Princess D