- Police Beat
- The Forecaster
The royal wedding is this Saturday, and I don’t care.
Well, what I mean is, I don’t want to care.
I can tell you all the reasons why I shouldn’t care. It is elitist, the monarchy is outdated, the money could be better spent on humanitarian efforts, the gender normative roles of this whole event are staggering, marriage itself is an outdated social contract I don’t even believe in. Blah, blah, blah. I can go on and on about why no one should care, but the sad truth is – I do. I do care.
It is so embarrassing, but there it is. When Diana married Charles (and we all know how that turned out) my big sister woke me at some ridiculous hour so we could watch it on live TV, and we did and I loved it.
I drew endless pictures of the event. I owned the paper dolls. Yes, official royal family paper dolls. There were many, many outfits for Diana, but the wedding dress was the lynch pin. I think they were supposed to be commemorative, but I cut them out immediately and played with them endlessly. True, my sister did want them to name their first child Upton so they’d be “Up, Chuck and Di,” and that is kind of counter-culture punk-abrasive, but mostly we were just full on smitten.
And here I am again. Will I be watching? Yes. Will there be tea and scones? Yes, of course (what do you take me for, a heathen?). There may or may not be hats.
I could try and make the argument that this one is different. After all, it is Diana’s son – Diana, the brave woman who changed the monarchy and hugged AIDS patients when no one else hugged them. The woman who battled land mines and put the face of children on war to make it stop. So we love her. And this is her son and he is marrying a Yank. A seemingly charming woman, married once before and of mixed ethnic heritage. Many a barrier coming down with this marriage.
Plus, though this prince is not in line for the throne anyway, we are now in an era where royal children no longer follow rules of gender in line for succession. Girls count now. So I can try for that argument. But really, it’s about the silly romance.
I can’t wait. Really. I have decided to give myself a pass on this. In a world of sorrow and angst, where major political arms wars and threats of nuclear annihilation are on every broadcast, I am giving myself permission to sink, just for a moment, into a world of buttercream and fondant.
I will be “oohing “and “ahhing” over dresses and hats and pearls. I will be spotting the breeds of the horses on parade, and I will be smiling at small children in silly suits. And I am OK with it. Even if for my own life I have deliberately chosen to not marry, for numerous social and political reasons. Even if I know the money is being ill spent. For just a little while, to believe again with childlike trust in the power of love and fairy tales, I’m in.
Pardon me while I go warm the teapot.
Brunswick resident Heather D. Martin wants to know what’s on your mind; email her at email@example.com.