For the record, I don’t hate the royals. I’m not British and I don’t have a dog in that fight. Still, I vehemently question their necessity. And I deeply resent the implication that any human being is superior to another simply by virtue of having slid down the right birth canal. I find that idea to be classist, sexist, racist and, I’m sure, a whole lot of other ists that I’m too tired to think of right now.
But much like the celebrities in our country, they’re just people, people! Why should we put any of them on a pedestal? People have argued with me about this all day, telling me the Windsors are great for their country. Sure. Their country provides them food, housing, clothes, you name it. Over here, that would make them a welfare family, and I haven’t heard many of the same people singing their praises. Oh, but they’re good for the national morale, is the rebuttal. Because who doesn’t love being looked down on by a bunch of blue bloods?
Can you imagine how much Kate — excuse me; she’s now to be called Catherine, I’m told — must cringe every time the press makes a reference to her being a commoner? Would you marry into a family, knowing your in-laws see you as common? As the British would say, Bugger that.
The next rebuttal is, obviously I just don’t get it. Okay, I can live with that. In fact, I can look myself in the mirror because of it. I don’t want to get it, because that might put me one step closer to approving of it. So I usually try not to think about it. The British can have their royal family, I can ignore them and we’ll both come out unscathed.
But it absolutely creeps me out to see people full-on obsessed with them. Why? Didn’t we learn anything from Princess Di? Our obsession created a demand. The demand empowered the paparazzi. The paparazzi killed her. Do I really need to connect the dots? Let them have their lifestyle, but go about your business, people. There’s nothing to see here.
And as for today’s shenanigans, I can’t stand sitting at a wedding that I was invited to — especially if it lasts longer than 15 minutes. There’s no way I was going to watch six hours’ coverage, commentary and recaps of Kate and Red Boy.
I understand wanting to gape a little at the pomp, the finery and the stupid hats, but there are people who took off from work to watch this. Hell, an entire country declared a holiday in honor of the nuptials — do you have any idea what that does to a national economy? Can you imagine if everyone in the U.S. had taken off work the Friday before Jenna Bush got married? That would have started our economic slump a few months earlier, but at least we all could have had a national day of voyeurism.
So I vowed not to watch today. But it didn’t matter — it was impossible not to see things like the picture of the peacock and Medusa, to the right, or to catch a glimpse of the kiss recap on a TV in the gym.
And even without watching, I was impacted by coverage. Kim got up early to catch some of the Westminster action, but I didn’t know it. This wound up getting me on the boys’ bad side for the day. See, I’m responsible for waking, dressing and feeding them before Kim takes them to school, but I don’t set an alarm. I know when I hear the shower door open that Kim is out of bed and it’s almost time for me to begin the routine. I don’t know what day it is; I don’t even know what time it is, but I know that means I have about five minutes before I have to wake them up.
Like Pavlov’s dog, I got up after the shower started this morning, made my way down the hall to the boys’ rooms and began the daily struggle to wake them up. It didn’t occur to me that it was darker outside than usual….
I think you know where I’m going with this, and it isn’t to the Father-of-the-Year Convention. Let’s just say the boys weren’t pleased once they realized it was nowhere near time for them to go to school, but they were already awake and dressed. (Yet, they still managed to leave late.)
But that’s okay, I turned it to my advantage. I told them it was the royal family’s fault.