Royal Wedding

Oh, did you think I was talking about the one happening in a week or whatever? Nah.

My neighbor and I had a moment in the elevator, laughing at the ridiculous hysteria over the royal wedding that is about to commence. I said, "When I was seven, I totally rolled out of bed to see princess Di get married." To which she said, "You were SEVEN."

Indeed.

When Diana died, there were a legion of girls, now women, who cried, if not outwardly, then within. It was a horrible moment. Of course, we did not know her. We would never know if we would have actually liked her. But that wasn't the point. What we did know was that we admired her, idolized her, not only because she was a princess, but because she was so close to us...at least as much as we could imagine. She loved Duran Duran and she loved Scottie Dog sweaters. Like us. And later when she broke away from that royal weirdo...we were on her side. Don't deny! Even when she bent her head and unleashed her venom in that strange and shameful tirade, you knew you had to side with her. NOT because she was a mother. Not because she was blond. HAHA. But because she was nineteen and foolish and swept up in a royal vortex.

In another world she might've been beheaded and remembered only for this. Instead, she was crushed in a Paris tunnel. So beneath her. So beneath anyone. And that is why we cried. Such a common death.

I am glad I remember rolling out of bed at 4 am to watch her wrinkled, billowing dress pile out of that carriage. And her sweet, young visage breaking out of those billows without haste. It is wonderful to know that she's part of this newest hysteria. It grounds the whole thing in reality and makes it all the more relevant and sublime. But forget this moment now. I'd rather remember Princess Di, dodging the press and braving the mass of media that awaited her, before the tunnel, before the end.