What do the royals do about problematic and embarrassing indigestion? I mean, around here, where dress-up means there’s no joint compound on your clothes, it’s kind of well … everyone breathes at their own risk. But ever since the much touted royal wedding, where everything was proper and quite upscale, I’ve had to ask myself, what do the newlyweds do? I mean, they’ve lived together (with a roommate), so surely something has been worked out. Somehow I can’t envision the newly crowned Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge letting one rip after a night of Indian Curry. So what do they do? (Really, it’s been a slow week). Believe it or not, there’s a serious issue here: what spontaneity and intimacy is lost among all that formality and propriety?
Around here it is pretty casual. Okay, so we’re not exactly the pre-Beverly Hills Clampets yet. On the other hand, between an elderly woman, three cats, my love-hate relationship with Mexican food, and the hubs’ complete denial about the health of his relationship with Italian Subs, well, let’s just say we’ve developed a rating scale. We can also identify the culprit now based on vibrato, pitch and octave range. And while some would say I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel for material here – and I admit again it’s been a slow week – it begs the question, at which point are they having any kind of marriage we could relate to?
Think about all the pain in the posterior things about your spouse that have become grist for your own personal sitcom. I have an entire essay built around the Captain of Chaos’s (aka “The Hubs”) love affair for all things clutter. My husband swears I am the Bermuda Triangle because nothing is in the same place twice: all those planes and boats are missing only because I decided to tidy up the Atlantic. Oh, and the toilet paper wars. I mean, can you imagine Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge letting hubby have it for a good ten minutes of non-stop profanity because he didn’t restock the bathroom again, and she had to use paper towels? Of course, that’s someone else’s job, probably twenty someone else’s, but you get my point I hope.
And they’re in public so often you know they are never going to have to have the “letting yourself go” argument. Again, twenty people on the payroll to make sure that never happens. But really, if you’ve got an entire staff to make sure you’re stunningly beautiful, where’s that joy when you realize that your husband is trying to get “friendly” when you’ve got greasy hair and Bahamas Blue wall-paint all over your forehead. And with Prince William, Duke of Cambridge always groomed and perfect, when is she ever going to get to use that “lost man in the woods” fantasy the rest of us find so handy when the hubby decides that Scruffy Man is the superhero he has to be for a weekend? I mean let’s face it, all those wonderfully grubby little moments are a dress-rehearsal for old age; if you can love each other then, you’ll love each other always.
Much as I rail about the elite and the rich, would I want to live a life of financial security, and a complete staff to take over those unpleasant, mundane little things of life? Much as I would miss mopping and dusting and grocery shopping … you bet ya. But just give me the money and take all the rest. My husband would die of grief if he never saw me with greasy hair and Bahamas Blue interior wall paint again.