I’m taking a risk here and divulging one of my fantasies. It’s not a huge risk, since I consider this to be one of my more reasonable fantasies (as it doesn’t involve adding myself to the cast of Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, or Star Trek), but I’m a little uncomfortable all the same. The fantasy is actually rooted in a story I read as a child. The story is about a princess, who was so beautiful that her fairy godmother thought all the compliments might go to her head. So she cast a spell on the princess so that everyone who saw her would think her ordinary and plain, except her one true love. He would recognize her beauty, they would fall in love and get married, the spell would be broken and everyone would live happily ever after. The moral of this story had something to do with inner-beauty, blah blah blah. Anyway, in my fantasy, I of course occupy the role of the princess, except that I recognize that I’m no Scarlett Johansson, Halle Berry or even Britney pre-Kevin. I’ve just skipped to the part where my Prince Charming recognizes my radiant inner beauty, falls madly in love with me and we live happily ever after. This always happens on a busy street or some other crowded area, where when he sees me and I see him, everything keeps moving around us, but we only have eyes for each other (you know, like in the movies). There’s usually some cheesy romantic music playing in the background.
Believe it or not, this scene has actually played out several times on the streets of Downtown San Francisco or in the Downtown Oakland BART stations. My Prince Charmings – the men who approach me to tell me how beautiful I am – are pretty much always bums, or drunk, or both. And instead of pianos and violins, this moment is typically accompanied by pop music from someone’s iPhone. I figure one of two things is going on here – either the love of my life is a man twice my age who sleeps on a park bench, or I need to rethink my fantasy. Considering the fact that these men probably do not shower before crawling into bed (a pet peeve of mine), I’ve opted for the latter.
In my new fantasy, all the same parameters apply, except that my Prince is so intimidated by my beauty that he dares not draw near. He looks up at me in my metaphorical tower and loves me from afar. One day he will grow a set and ask me to cast down my fair hair (which is the real reason I’m growing it out. That and because I want to be cool like the chicks on Grey’s). Until then, these false princes (the drunks) are merely the only men crazy enough to approach me in my radiance.