Lovely, dahlink.

I think there’s been a mistake.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, a grave error was made in my lineage. I am supposed to be a British royal. I just know it.

See, my idea of a rousing good time is a stormy day, a book or a craft project, and a fabulous cup of tea. I’d much rather spell words like “favourite” and “neighbour” in proper British form – with the u’s, naturally – and so I do. None of my very American friends have ever questioned me on this, which I both appreciate and find amusing. (They may know well by now that questioning my decision on anything is a question best left unspoken. They also may never have noticed.)

I think the American style of speech is garish and downright ugly – it slices and skewers words to make them sound cheap and unimportant. I would speak like a Brit if I thought I could get away with it, but that is an everyday decision more likely to garner questions in my country than a simple change in spelling.

I dream of throwing delicious (but economically sensible) parties, of wearing silly “fascinators” just because I can (see: Princess Beatrice), and smiling graciously at everyone I meet, no matter how much I may not want to. (Masochistic of me? Perhaps.)

It’s true that I spend much of my free time perusing websites about places and people I may never see/meet. Some of them, I’m sure I will. But no matter, I love feeling hoity toity and delightfully silly sometimes. That may be the largest appeal – knowing that being a British royal is something I could never, ever achieve.

And frankly, I’d make a terrible royal anyway.

For every moment I spend daydreaming about lavish to-dos and princess lessons, I spend an equal amount of time appalled by the speculation, gossip, and venom that surrounds these people. Poor Pippa Middleton can’t catch a break, and she’s not even “royal”! (Quick side note: Folks, you need to calm down about Pippa’s supposed “book deal”. The woman is a party planner; she’s writing a book. Publishers want to offer her a lot of money for the book, primarily because she’s beautiful, successful, and – oh yeah – sister to the Duchess of Cambridge. That’s not “cashing in”. What is she supposed to do, NOT write a book about what she does for a living, just because her sister’s a princess? Psh. I’d argue that journalists who can’t successfully use spell check shouldn’t be allowed to write, either. But then we wouldn’t get our precious “news” about things like Pippa’s “inappropriate” book deal, now would we?)

Kate Middleton is well-loved for a reason: because she makes a lovely royal. She’s gracious, beautiful, poised…everything a princess (or duchess) should be. And for every thing that Kate does right, I would have the palace PR in a frenzy. I’m uncouth. I speak my mind. If someone pisses me off, you’re damn right I’m going to have a hard time keeping my facial expression pleasant. Sometimes, I’m just plain cranky for no good reason. And I’ll be damned if I’m wearing nylons every day of the year.

So, really, I don’t want to be a royal. But I would like a valid excuse to act like an old British woman at least half of the year. Does this odd age-inappropriate trait of mine (at age 27, no less) mean that I’ll be club-hopping in Mexico at 70? It might.

From what I’ve seen, many Brits – of the common variety – aren’t overly in love with their country. Many of them despise the idea of a royal family, loathe the endless days of rain, and feel that their country, as a whole, is too “stuffed-shirt”. (Hey – here in the US, we can’t even show boobies or “bums” on TV! Who’s a bunch of stuffed-shirts now?!)

What is it they say? The grass is always greener?

Well, I live in one of the greenest, most rain-soaked parts of the US (in fact, we receive significantly more rain than many parts of the UK), yet yearn for another shore. So perhaps the grass is…less green?

Something like that.

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