#9: Death of a Tiara
Friends, family and other devoted Column readers: I write to you today from the depths of grief. It is with intense sorrow that I must inform you that on Saturday, January 10, 2004, due to an inexplicable and horrible accident, my beloved silver plastic tiara was irrevocably mauled and (sob) broken.
I was wearing it only moments before, as I always do when cleaning my room. The tiara makes me feel less common by reminding me that I am the Princess of Quite a Lot and that if I really wanted to, I could have someone clean for me. But that is not the type of behavior a role model and member of royalty, such as myself, should exhibit, so I clean up after myself. (Shut up, I do. When the mood strikes.)
For some unknown reason, I took off the tiara and put it on the floor. (I know, I know! Never put a tiara on the floor!) I grabbed something off of my bed, took a step backward and heard a sickening crunch. I looked down and there was the tiara, snapped in two, still sparkling up at me, unaware that I had just ended its short life.
I stood above it in shock and managed to say aloud to the empty house, "I think I'm going to cry." I know it is only a $5.00 plastic tiara that I bought in Disneyland. But it was my tiara.
All of you who are making fun of me in your heads right now obviously just don't understand the power a tiara has to change your mood. Whenever I felt bad about something, I'd put the tiara on and it always, always made me feel better. I would bet you a large sum of money that there is some study out there somewhere that proves wearing sparkly crowns produces endorphins that make you happy. Or maybe it is the way wearing the tiara made me hold my head a little higher, made me stand a little straighter ...
...sob...hiccup...
... Okay. I'm a little better now. I need to move on. Introduce a new tiara into my life. Where does one buy a reasonably priced tiara in the Midwest? (Seriously, I need a new one.)
Saturday wasn't a total bust however. I went out to eat and had a lively conversation about the semantics of the phrase "sub par." Which means (ahemSirahem): "Not measuring up to traditional standards of performance, value, or production." (A little advice guys, most girls do not enjoy being told, "You look cute when you're agitated." Especially in response to the girl saying, "You haven't listened to a word I've said.")
Again, I could not seem to get the food from my plate to my mouth, but I didn't stain anything! Go me! And I found out some very important information regarding The Column. It appears that I may have misrepresented Sir Not Appearing in This Column. (Note the use of the word "may." I am in no way whatsoever admitting any wrongdoing on my part.) It seems that he does not mind being written about. In fact he told me he was "honored" to appear here. "Feel free to write whatever you want about me," he said. Dangerous words, my friend, dangerous words.
Therefore a proclamation will be... proclaimed (unfortunately without the ceremonial tiara) that henceforth Sir Not Appearing in This Column will be known as Sir Now Appearing in This Column even though most of us will still refer to him as just plain old Sir because the title is still too long to type more than once.
Later that night I went out dancing and I was pleasantly surprised that after an eight-month hiatus, I still know how. In fact, I out-danced everyone I went with. They were huffing and puffing and I was still going strong. In three inch heels. My grief must have fueled me.
Of course there was that one guy who makes going to bars annoying for girls. You know That Guy who follows you around, trying very hard not to appear drunk and/or desperate to the point of Just Plain Sad. My friend Little J and I were heading back to the dance floor with waters for everyone and That Guy kept pawing at her so, being taller and slightly scary when I wear my black boots, I made her walk in front of me. That Guy then took the liberty to shower my back with his attention. And his hands.
That Guy is lucky I had my hands full and that it was too crowded to kick him squarely where he needed to be kicked. Instead all he got was a very nasty stare and a "Don't even think about it," from me. Just Plain Sad or not, That Guy really makes me mad. Does any girl enjoy that kind of attention from a stranger at a bar? Especially when she has already yanked her friend away from him and turned her back?
Fortunately That Guy left us alone for the rest of the night and I was able to enjoy myself until everyone else's energy pooped out. I had enjoyed myself so thoroughly that it wasn't until I got home and looked beside my bed that I remembered my poor little tiara. It's sitting next to my bed right now, broken and unwearable. I can't bring myself to throw it out.
Sniffle...
|
I was wearing it only moments before, as I always do when cleaning my room. The tiara makes me feel less common by reminding me that I am the Princess of Quite a Lot and that if I really wanted to, I could have someone clean for me. But that is not the type of behavior a role model and member of royalty, such as myself, should exhibit, so I clean up after myself. (Shut up, I do. When the mood strikes.)
For some unknown reason, I took off the tiara and put it on the floor. (I know, I know! Never put a tiara on the floor!) I grabbed something off of my bed, took a step backward and heard a sickening crunch. I looked down and there was the tiara, snapped in two, still sparkling up at me, unaware that I had just ended its short life.
I stood above it in shock and managed to say aloud to the empty house, "I think I'm going to cry." I know it is only a $5.00 plastic tiara that I bought in Disneyland. But it was my tiara.
All of you who are making fun of me in your heads right now obviously just don't understand the power a tiara has to change your mood. Whenever I felt bad about something, I'd put the tiara on and it always, always made me feel better. I would bet you a large sum of money that there is some study out there somewhere that proves wearing sparkly crowns produces endorphins that make you happy. Or maybe it is the way wearing the tiara made me hold my head a little higher, made me stand a little straighter ...
...sob...hiccup...
... Okay. I'm a little better now. I need to move on. Introduce a new tiara into my life. Where does one buy a reasonably priced tiara in the Midwest? (Seriously, I need a new one.)
Saturday wasn't a total bust however. I went out to eat and had a lively conversation about the semantics of the phrase "sub par." Which means (ahemSirahem): "Not measuring up to traditional standards of performance, value, or production." (A little advice guys, most girls do not enjoy being told, "You look cute when you're agitated." Especially in response to the girl saying, "You haven't listened to a word I've said.")
Again, I could not seem to get the food from my plate to my mouth, but I didn't stain anything! Go me! And I found out some very important information regarding The Column. It appears that I may have misrepresented Sir Not Appearing in This Column. (Note the use of the word "may." I am in no way whatsoever admitting any wrongdoing on my part.) It seems that he does not mind being written about. In fact he told me he was "honored" to appear here. "Feel free to write whatever you want about me," he said. Dangerous words, my friend, dangerous words.
Therefore a proclamation will be... proclaimed (unfortunately without the ceremonial tiara) that henceforth Sir Not Appearing in This Column will be known as Sir Now Appearing in This Column even though most of us will still refer to him as just plain old Sir because the title is still too long to type more than once.
Later that night I went out dancing and I was pleasantly surprised that after an eight-month hiatus, I still know how. In fact, I out-danced everyone I went with. They were huffing and puffing and I was still going strong. In three inch heels. My grief must have fueled me.
Of course there was that one guy who makes going to bars annoying for girls. You know That Guy who follows you around, trying very hard not to appear drunk and/or desperate to the point of Just Plain Sad. My friend Little J and I were heading back to the dance floor with waters for everyone and That Guy kept pawing at her so, being taller and slightly scary when I wear my black boots, I made her walk in front of me. That Guy then took the liberty to shower my back with his attention. And his hands.
That Guy is lucky I had my hands full and that it was too crowded to kick him squarely where he needed to be kicked. Instead all he got was a very nasty stare and a "Don't even think about it," from me. Just Plain Sad or not, That Guy really makes me mad. Does any girl enjoy that kind of attention from a stranger at a bar? Especially when she has already yanked her friend away from him and turned her back?
Fortunately That Guy left us alone for the rest of the night and I was able to enjoy myself until everyone else's energy pooped out. I had enjoyed myself so thoroughly that it wasn't until I got home and looked beside my bed that I remembered my poor little tiara. It's sitting next to my bed right now, broken and unwearable. I can't bring myself to throw it out.
Sniffle...
|
posted by Sun at 1:37 PM
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