I wasn’t near a TV when Diana married Charles. I was living in West Africa and I got news of the world via the international edition of Newsweek magazine every Tuesday. So I was out of the loop on that fateful day in July, 1981.
But once I got back to America I was hooked on Diana. I got the idea to wear my red skirt with my pink jacket from her.
And when she sold her dresses at Christie’s auction house, I had left the business but still knew peole there who got me in after hours so Icould wander the galleries and visit each gown one-on-one. Little did I know that she’d be dead in two months, or else I would have grabbed one of those sale catalogs that are collector’s items that go for $400 on eBay these days.
But I’ve been glued to the TV all evening, watching the reports from London about The Wedding of the Century (bad call: I’m sure that one of these days, one of the heirs to the English throne is going to marry a first cousin, a divorcee, a Jewess, a film star, an amputee, one of the Grimaldi sluts, or an Olympic shot putter and THAT will be The Wedding of the Century) and I have tears running down my face. I so wish that Diana could be here to see her William marry that nice girl, Kate.
That’s so not like me. I don’t even like weddings. I refuse to go to any more weddings (I always use the excuse that “I’m on a deadline” because nobody wants to hear that you don’t want to spend a day in your finite life wearing clothes you hate, to hang out with people who bore you to tears, to watch some dopes who have a 50-50 chance of being together in five years prance around as if they were turned into film stars for a day). I don’t like the ceremony, the food, or the small talk at weddings. I dislike wedding so much that when Top Cat and I got married I didn’t invite anyone to our elopement (I thought I was doing everyone a favor) except my sister told me that she wouldn’t ever believe I’d got somebody to take me on unless she saw it with her own eyes, so she came.
But I’m very sentimental about this May or May Not Be Wedding of the Century.
Because it might be the last Royal Wedding I’ll ever live through.
Because I remember being young (William and Kate are both 29, the age when I first thought I was old).
Because I miss the ’80s.
Because Diana would have been so proud.
Because I remember when William was a tubby little baby and I remember thinking “One day he’s going to be grown up and make a Princess out of somebody” , and now that day is here and it was supposed to never come (Hey Time’s Arrow! I was kidding!)
Because Queen Elizabeth, the Groom’s grandmother, was 55 years old when her son Charles married Diana.
Because that’s the age I am now.
Because today I looked in the mirror and had a revelation. It’s not that I was having a bad hair day, it’s not that I was tired, it’s not that the lighting was harsh, it’s not that I was wearing a particularly hideously unflattering hue. I look the way I look because I’m Queen Elizabeth, c. 1981.
Because they re-ran that episode of The Office tonight when Michael Scott proposed to Holly, and that made me cry too.
It doesn’t take much.
Happy Wedding, everyone.