Throwback: That Elusive Frog

Written August 30, 2010. The more things change, the more they stay the same. 

I want to dedicate this post to all my beautiful, smart and loving girlfriends, who definitely deserve much much better than the Losers in Tin Foil that they keep running into. I have a feeling that all the Knights in Shining Armour died out during the Medieval Ages. Damn the Crusades!!! Now all we're left with are these egoistic morons who think They Are. (I swear there is no other way to describe their mentality.) They are God's gift to Womanity. They are the answers to our every prayer. They are what we fasted every Monday since we hit puberty for.

Just watch out for that patronizing smile that makes your skin curl. That look in his eyes that says, "Yes, you're my girl. I am your God. Aren't you so lucky? I can't wait till school ends today and I get you on your own."

[Note: Yes, I have had ALL OF THE ABOVE lines used on me.]

This is where I immortalize the lines of the greatest Kitsch. She won't recognize her nickname because I just made it up for her, but that's an entirely different issue altogether.

"Everyone has their Prince Charming, but it takes a lot of FROGS before you eventually find that Prince Charming."

And you know what? I am so DONE kissing frogs. Completely. Unless the Prince wants to stay a frog all his life, he'd better come up with a less gross as well as less emotionally charged way of letting me know who he is. Also, he'd better start acting less like a frog, and more like a Prince. Fast.

Of course, Kitsch also came up with the suggestion that perhaps the Prince has just lost his way and is too stubborn to ask for directions. It's nice to know that there are still people who actually believe in the fairy tale theme of having a handsome, gentle, loving protector who will ALWAYS be there for you.

Unfortunately, I lost faith in it a long time ago, or so I thought. I still kept my colourful picture books with those big letters, but I tore the last page out of all of them. The page that had Ariel and Eric all in white, arm in arm on the deck. Snow White's Prince lifting her out of the glass coffin, and their eyes meeting. Cinderella and the Prince waving out of the pumpkin- like carriage. I tore those pages out and dumped them in the fire, watching my dreams spiral up the chimney as I did so.

But if I don't believe in that concept anymore, what is it that makes the tears come back every time I turn a new page? What is it that I ache for, without half realizing that I do so? Why do I feel a twinge every time he walks away? Because he's been walking away always. It's just the face that changes, and perhaps the smile. The direction? Never.

It's just unfair that 50% of the human population just HAS to be so weird and pathetic... and that the other 50% is supposed to condemn themselves to living with one of those for the rest of their lives.

Just today morning, before all the weirdly good-ish bad things that happened today, I was dreaming, and letting myself dream. Of a scene on a beach, and a boy and a girl, with the cold evening wind in their hair and a drizzle on their faces. They were incredibly happy, because they'd found each other at last. Because the journey had come to an end. The Knight let his horse loose into the pasture, and the Princess got up and put away her tapestry. Then they ran hand in hand onto the beach. The song I was listening to became the background music for the dream and I suddenly found myself on the floor of my big living room in Sharjah again. The one that had the beautiful, classy pink curtains and the dark maroon carpet. And those beautiful armchairs with the design like chocolate caramel pudding. I found myself turning the pages of my copy of Beauty and the Beast till I got to the ballroom dance. And that dance was The Dance, of a sudden.

Do you think dying is the answer? All of a sudden, a swift silence that sweeps in from behind you, and the music is gone, it's time to stop dancing and leave.

But... then?

It's the avid reader in me, the girl who wants to know the ending to every story, that keeps me going. Because she wouldn't be able to hear the end of the story when the Silence fell.

Rather than a noisy toast, and glasses going all clink-clink, I suggest you pick your glass of golden bubbly up and walk to the open window. The chill night air blows in, and the stars are inviting you out to play. Maybe you should play, or perhaps you shouldn't, not if what others say matter to you. If, like me, you're the kind of person who does mind value judgments, but would rather not let the hurt stand in the way of instant gratification (at least at times), then go ahead anyway. But remember that there's a disclaimer attached.

Sip your champagne and close your eyes and smile.