I am living a real-life fairy tale, disguised as an unwanted life.
I have a house in the suburbs with soon-to-be-planted boxwood bushes, three kids, and a yappy little dog. I run marathons for fun. But I have no husband, and I left my dysfunctional family in Indiana decades ago.
Which, I suppose, makes me not so unique, though I doubt a crowd would press to sign up for this package deal.
So why, then, do I feel like such a lucky Cinderella?
Because the thing that everyone pines for – the story that makes chicks cry at flicks and wish their husbands would be the prince they’ve always dreamed of – that which even men secretly desire has become my amazing, incredible reality.
I’m sure some folks pity me, a single working mother, but show me one traditional family in my neighborhood where the woman gets all the positive attention she could hope for, feels like a princess every fucking day, and is so happy she worries her heart might explode. I betcha I’m the only one – probably in the whole tri-state area.
It doesn’t mean my problems and stress have disappeared.
But god, I am so lucky.