When I was a teenager, I didn’t dream of marrying a Hollywood star. I dreamed of marrying a prince. Like a real one. From Europe. Preferably from England.
And can you blame me? The boys that filled my junior high school consisted of three types: arrogant jocks, tiresome Bible-thumpers, and rambunctious cowboys. And when forced to choose, my answer was always “none of the above.”
I wanted an alpha male (what girl doesn’t?), but I also wanted an old-fashioned gentleman. A guy who was confident, chivalrous, courteous, and kind. I saw no reason why I couldn’t go after my prince rather than waiting for him to come to me. And I saw no reason why (once we fell in love) we couldn’t go through life as equals. I would be the benevolent (and subtly fashionable) princess at his side, looking after the well-being of our kingdom and dedicating myself to its service. Our co-regency would be compassionate, generous, and merciful; empowering others would become our regal raison d’etre.
This was my royal fantasy as I lugged my books back and forth through the crowded halls of junior high. My parents just rolled their eyes and went with it — to them, my prince fantasy was ideal because it wasn’t interfering with my education like real sex with a real boyfriend might have.
But a lot of people called me crazy. Worse than crazy — delusional. They also called me silly, shallow, and immature. Because modern women aren’t supposed to want a prince. Not really. Not if we’re intelligent with any sense of self. And we’re definitely not supposed to believe in the old-fashioned fairy tale of true love. Forget that. It’s much more acceptable for independent, well-educated women to pretend that our dreams of happily ever after don’t exist. But I’m afraid that doesn’t make them go away.
Original by Pop Sugar
