The Little Princess
October 25, 2005
I went swing dancing the other night. Thanks to my friend C. who wrote and said I should come, and to my friend Andrea who called and said, “Proceed forthwith from your house noweth!” (I’m paraphrasing.) She knew I was in a bummer mood and wisely said I should get out of my house.
I had a great time and I think it was largely due to me respecting my princesshood. Yes, I’m a closet princess. It all started when I was little and my family used to call me a little princess, and they didn’t mean it as a compliment. I even had a shirt which said, “Little Princess” on it. It was pink with sparkles, I wore it backwards so I could see the words. I remember wearing it when I visited my step-brother in prison, and I still have it in my cedar chest.
I also read “The Little Princess.” It sparked many a fantasy and I, being jealous of the little Princess, thought she got her comeuppance when she had to go live in the attic. But then, she did treat the little servant girl kindly, and I was glad when she got rescued by the monkey. Why, oh why, couldn’t a monkey rescue me?! But I digress.
After being accused of being a little princess, I had to put my tiara and all my pink girlishness under wraps. It wasn’t until I was in my mid-twenties that I started to reframe my princessness. I moved in with two other princesses. They were more clearly princesses, and one day my roommate came home with a skirt that twirled. “Oh, I love skirts that twirl!” I said. “Of course you do,” she said assuringly, “all princesses love skirts that twirl.” Yes, she knew I was a princess too. Believe it or not, it was a revelatory moment for me. I just sat there, (on the bathroom floor, as it happens,) stunned. I mean, my mouth was open and my eyes were wide. I was a princess too, and it was ok.