Tag Archives: Europe

November 16, 2010 · 12:56 PM

It’s Official: I’m Not Marrying Prince William

He’s engaged. 

Prince William asked his girlfriend of eight years, Kate Middleton, to marry him. 

To put my current previous obsession with Wills in perspective, consider this: my friend Amy sent me a text at 4:11AM telling me the news. 

Because news like this cannot wait. 

Because she knows I’ve been waiting for it. 

And because she knows I need to hear it from no one but her.

This is a woman who once collected every article written about Princess Diana for an entire year.  They were all kept under her bed, stacks and stacks of magazines and newspaper clippings of every detail of her life and tragic death.  I would go over to her house across the street and we’d pull them all out and stare at hundreds of photos.  We knew her life story, her family dynamics, her best dresses, her worst hairstyles. 

So, you could say it was picture perfect that a Prince William obsessor should get a 4AM text from a Princess Di obsessor.

We were 13 at the time, however, so it might seem silly that we care at age 26.  It might.

But I am not concerned with silliness, because I absolutely love royal weddings, and this one should prove to be more fantastic than the rest.  I cannot wait to see what style of dress she will choose, how decorated his suit will be, how many people will line the streets of London hoping to catch a glimpse.

Kate is already moving up my ladder of style icons.  People may joke about her over-the-top headpieces and formal hats, but I think they’re divine.  If it were even in the vicinity of socially acceptable in the States, I’d be sporting one every chance I got.

Given my propensity for formality and etiquette, I am eager to see the royal wedding process unfold.  I already admire their delayed announcement and press call, so the couple could have some private time to celebrate.  And in an age of reality TV and totally lack of privacy, I respect their decision not to share the details of how he proposed. 

These are the times when I mourn my lack of celebrity.  If I were at least a successful actress or daughter of a President, I might have a chance at an invitation.  As a Seattleite with no claim to fame, I probably won’t need to watch the mail too closely.

Which really is a shame, because I would have rocked a killer headpiece for that event.

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June 23, 2010 · 3:00 AM

Fit for a King

From the age of 13 to 15 I wished beyond anything else that I could marry Prince William.  Yes, he was very cute in those days, but his being cute wasn’t nearly as attractive as his being royal.  I used to imagine the People magazine cover of our engagement and our soon-to-be wedding.  Laugh all you want, but Kate Middleton did nothing but prove that my fantasy wasn’t far from reality (just…not for me).

I had an entire wall of posters of him, postcards of his face from friends who visited the UK, and teen magazine tear-outs analyzing his moppy hair.  I even wrote a three-page letter to his fan club, which ranks among the most embarrassing acts of my entire life.

Needless to say, I developed an obsession with all things British-royalty.  The palaces, the houses in the country, the clothing, the peacock hats pinned to the sides of heads, the wealth, the formality, the etiquette, the travel.  But nothing held the same fantastical appeal as the creme de le creme: royal weddings.

Remember Diana’s?  I don’t.  I wasn’t alive.  But the pictures — my word, the pictures — showcase the over-the-top grandeur of it all.  It wasn’t their fault; as my friend Siri appropriately noted, “Diana’s wedding fell victim to the ’80s.” 

Look no further than her sleeves to understand why:

It’s madness.  She looks like she was swallowed whole by a pillow.

The entire wedding party is lost in a sea of fluff.  The wrings of flowers on the girls’ hair only causes further chaos.

All of this is freshly brought to mind because of the style triumph that was Sweden’s Crown Princess Victoria’s wedding last Saturday.  It was elegant, refined, opulent and undeniably royal (despite her marrying a commoner — gasp!).

My opinion of Swedes has skyrocketed due to the gorgeous representation of the people by their royals.

Look at the joyful bride and groom:

Not only are they both gorgeous, but their clothes are picture perfect.  She wore an off-the-shoulder, age-appropriate (she’s 32) cream-colored silk gown designed by Pär Engsheden.  He donned an undecorated white-tie tuxedo with tails.

What most impresses me, I believe, is that on the one day when she could have worn head-to-toe five-carat diamonds, sapphires and family jewels, she instead chose to wear the cameo tiara her mother wore on her wedding day in 1976.

Don’t get me wrong — it’s still stunning.  But it’s less obvious and ostentatious than the typical crown associated with royalty.  After all, what does she have to prove?  We know she’s going to be Queen; no need to flaunt it, I suppose.

What’s amazing about her groom, Daniel Westling, is that he was her personal trainer.  Not royal.  Not a billionaire.  Do you see why I employed fantasies of a girl from Seattle marrying the future King of England?

Question: can you imagine being the mother of a commoner marrying into royalty?  I honestly can’t conceive of a more daunting wardrobe situation.  The entire royal world will be attending your son’s wedding to an actual princess, 500 million people will be watching on TV, and you have to walk in there as the only woman without a crown.  Ouch.

I’m sad to report that Westling’s mother failed to rise to the occasion.  She’s wearing a dress any mother-of-the-groom could find at Moms, Maids and More.

After the ceremony, the bride lifted her 16-foot train and looped it around her arm so she could hit the dance floor.  It occurs to me that this seems like a hassle, and certainly a lot of fabric to keep track of, but then again royals don’t bustle their dresses.  They have giant trains for a reason — they’re royalty.

The handsome duo didn’t disappoint for their version of a rehearsal dinner, either.  A gala dinner and concert were given for the couple the evening prior to the wedding, and the results speak for themselves:

Impeccable.  I can’t help but note that the groom has to be the most modern-looking man to become a prince in recent memory.  Those glasses and that hair make him look as if he’s partner of a Manhattan design studio.

Clearly I’m already toe-tapping in anticipation of the next royal wedding, between my former flame and his commoner girlfriend.  It’s only a matter of time before he pops the question, and only a matter of taste whether their wedding will receive the Words Become One nod of approval.

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May 14, 2010 · 3:00 AM

Baby Face

In the last two weeks, I’ve had freakishly frequent comments from strangers about my age.  Or, more specifically, about what age they perceive me to be.

I haven’t shrunken six inches nor gotten a new haircut, and I don’t dress like I listen to Miley Cyrus.  So what gives?

Last Saturday my mother-in-love took me and my sister-in-loves for some manis/pedis.  As I sat down in the chair at Gene Juarez, a 60-year-old Russian woman stared back at me.  She had bleached hair, false eyelashes, and long acrylic nails.  That wasn’t charming, but her accent was: when she spoke, it sounded like, “I vant to luke at yore nals.”

Her first question for me: “Woo did you come here vith?”

“Oh, my mother-in-law, sitting right over there,” I said, pointing.  “She’s taking all her daughters out.”

“NO!” she gasped.  “No, no, no, dis is not posseebul.  You?  Mahhreed?  I thought you vere in high school.”

What do I say to that?  Am I insulted?  Flattered?

What people don’t realize is that when you’re in your twenties, you’re in a no-fly zone.  The air is still.  You’re not striving to be younger, you’re not striving to be older.  You just are where you are.

And I’m fully aware of the advantages of this position.  I know teens would kill to be in their twenties and those at middle-age would give up their 401Ks to revisit 25.

But there is another side to this position:  uncertainty.  I am not established.  At 26 I’m still trying to work in a professional career, attempting to be taken seriously.  I’m not searching for compliments on my wrinkle-free face.

In fact, the only reason I started wearing makeup was to be perceived as older, so those around me in cubicle-land wouldn’t treat me like their adolescent daughter.

Yesterday, as I was checking out of Trader Joes, the 70-year-old checker gave me my receipt, and then said, “Now, I didn’t check your ID for the wine you bought, but I just looked at you and realized I definitely should have.  But I see you’re wearing a wedding ring, so how young could you possibly be?  Basically what I’m saying is I have to know how old you are.”

Sigh.  This again.  The line of people behind me stared at attention.

“I’m 26,” I admitted.

“Well, miss, may I say you are doing 26 quite well,” he offered, as some sort of concession.

What does that even mean?  How can one not be looking well at 26?  If I were 46 and all this was happening, I’d be dancing my way across the parking lot with my groceries.

Which is why this bothers me, to some degree.  What people are basically trying to say is that I look like a teenager.  The worst example yet:

Last summer while on vacation with my family in Europe, Erin (older sister), Sam (younger sister) and Mike decided to go out to a club, which happened to be “18 and over.”  We didn’t bring our IDs because we didn’t think it was an issue.

As we’re all approaching the entrance, two bouncers look us up and down.  They wave Mike in.  Wave Erin in.  Wave Sam in.

They hold up their palms at me.  “Nope.  Sorry this is 18 and over,” one says to me.

I look behind him at my three stunned companions standing in the doorway.

“Are you serious?” I reply.  “I’m 25!  I’m MARRIED to that man.  It’s illegal in the states to be married unless you’re 18.”

“Unless you can show me ID, you can’t enter,” he says.

Sam is almost beside herself with joyful giggles that she, who is four years younger than me, is standing inside the club while I am outside getting harassed for looking 17.

He finally looks at me with pity.  He says, “Quick — what year were you born?!”

“1984!” I shout with an embarrassing amount of hope in my eyes.

“Fine,” he says, and waves me through.

I know, I know.  You’re going to bank this story and bring it up to me when I’m 45 and in the waiting room of the plastic surgery office.  Just promise me when you do, you’ll follow it up with “and you could STILL pass for 17.”  I won’t believe you, but post-op I’ll probably buy you a drink.

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