My inner princess

I've never been accused of being a 'girly-girl.' I make a decent living. I know how to change a tire. I'm not afraid of spiders. I don't wear shoes that hurt my feet. I think bubblegum pink and animal prints should be reserved for little girls and animals. I hate the way I look with long hair. I've never expected a man to take care of me.

Still, I never thought I'd make it to 40 without having a long-term romantic relationship. That has so many downsides that I'm not even going to try to address them all. The one that's bothering me today is my inner princess. She doesn't require tiaras and ball gowns, but she is looking for Prince Charming under every rock, tree and shrub in the kingdom. She is the holder of my hope that I'm going through a dry-spell rather than living in a dessert. I hate her.

She is the last vestige of bright-eyed optimism and open-hearted naivete in my person. She is also a crazy bitch. If there is a single man in my life who I find even remotely attractive, she goes into detective mode, whispering perceived signs of love into my ear like a giddy hallucination. No matter how much my rational mind knows better, she will not be silenced. 

When she's wrong (and she always is), she is devastated and betrayed. She is the woman scorned. I know, as it says in Avenue Q, that 'when someone doesn't love you back, it isn't such a crime," but she wants to eat all the Haagen Dazs and then slash his tires.(kind of like my BFF). My lack of criminal record will attest to the fact that I don't go along with her on this. Which just pisses her off more. She spends most of her time being mad at me.

She is the voice chanting that I wasn't thin enough, or pretty enough, or charming enough. I aimed too high. I looked too slutty or not slutty enough. I should have known better than to use such long words. I should just shut up and bat my eyelashes, dammit. In fact, I should have taken a cue from Janeane Garafalo and Uma Thurman in that cats and dogs movie and just sent someone else entirely to reel 'em in for me. I tend to agree that that would up my success rate, but I'm sick of being responsible for her happily every after. I'm sorry she hitched her wagon to a twinkle light instead of a star. I just wish she'd shut up about it.

If having my hopeless romantic removed was an option, I would sign up for the surgery in a heartbeat. Afterall, my life is pretty good except for that. I have great friends and a job and a dog. I'm surprisingly healthy for a woman of my girth and age. I'd have some pretty cool guy-friends, too, if I hadn't scared them off with the notion of dating me. If I could just disassociate from love and sex and all that I would be SO MUCH HAPPIER.Instead, I'm shackled to Cinderella, and she's going to make me pay for missing that ball.