This post isn’t actually about Prince Harry, but I would like to note that he may or may not be my dream man. First things first, he’s a red-head AND he’s attractive. I think we all know that doesn’t happen every day. Secondly, he seems like a not that bright, womanizing, a-hole that would forget your name before that gorgeous, freckled body even climbed out of your bed. And, for whatever reason, the fantasy of having a royal treat me like a whore turns me on. It is weird. I know, but damn, I would like to wrestle that ginger to the ground, or, better yet, have him wrestle me to the ground while saying something totally British like, “Bagging you will be aces!”

Anywaaay, this post is clearly about dignity which is why it is actually about his more dignified older brother, William, and his future bride, Kate Middleton. Upon immediately reaching for a tabloid that promised wedding details and had these two featured on the front, two dual thoughts collided in my mind: a.) I need to get a life, and b.) I really like them.

Yes, I really like Wills and Kate. When I refer to him by a pet name (that I just made up) and her by her first name, it adopts a whole new level of pathetic that actually matches my excitement for their April 29th wedding and the one man party I’m going to have on my couch with an extra-large pizza and my favorite elastic wasted pants when the wedding of two complete strangers broadcasts.

To be fair, I do have my reasons for liking them. They are both extremely attractive. He has a manly job. She makes bold decisions with weird hats. He likes sweaters over popped collars. She has fabulous hair. They both have British accents. Digging deeper! They could not have been cuter in their engagement interview. They appear to be happy and well-adjusted. They seem classy. They seem genuinely in love. They appear to be best friends.

But, really, what fuels my 100% pathetic investment in these two are the assumptions I’ve made about their investment in each other. I’m impatient, so the idea of me waiting five years for a proposal is unlikely and if one of my friends held out nine years, I would call her mental before pointing out that (12 x 9 = 108) 108(!) of her eggs had been wasted on Wills’ watch. But, she seemed to have something that more people need, and that thing is faith. Faith in him. Faith in herself. Faith in the idea that when the time was right for both of them, this would happen and that the British press didn’t get to dictate when that was. Call me a romantic, but I think that’s aces.

For the rest of us, mere serfs incapable of pulling off weird, feathered hats in public- the British press demanding an engagement usually comes from the entourage known as our married friends or a nosey coworker, or most likely, our mother. The sentiment comes from the right place, the calculation of all those dead eggs and the fear that if you ever break up, your future will be sad singles cruises mostly attended by 40+ female midwest carb addicts and creepy men that wear colored contacts, but at the end of the day, only the two of you understand the nuances of your relationship, the future that could or could not be and when the time will be right for everyone involved.   

 

 

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