Why I don’t want to be Queen (Or How I’m trying to adult today) #ExpatLife #MondayBlogs

not queenLike most little girls, I wanted to be a queen when I was growing up. I didn’t want to find my fairy prince or marry a king. Oh no, not I. I wanted to be queen because I wanted to be in charge of the world. Yes, the world. I’m now way past the age of falling in love with a fairytale prince (because, duh, they don’t exist) or marrying a king and, although I’d still like to rule the world, I’ve come to the decision that I don’t want to be the queen. Here’s why:

not queen 3Hair. Your hair always has to be styled and looking perfect if you’re the queen. I’m lucky if I manage to comb my hair before pulling it up in a bun or ponytail and heading out the door to walk the dog.

Make-up. Most days I don’t use any make-up at all. If I do wear make-up, I usually forget to clean it off before going to bed and end up walking the dog in the park with mascara smeared under my eyes. The queen, on the other hand, always has to look perfect – including perfect make-up. I don’t even know how to apply the perfect make-up. I have to go to the beauty salon to get my make-up done for any important events. Luckily, those are few and far between.

Clothing. Although I’m sure it’s nice to have a wardrobe of all kinds of awesome clothes, the queen has to be properly dressed all the time. I, on the other hand, throw a fit every morning when I have to get out of my pajamas and walk the dog. Ripped jeans are the norm for me. My hoity-toity neighbors don’t know what to think of me.

Pantyhose. I hate pantyhose. One of my favorite things about giving up corporate life is the lack of pantyhose. Yes, I hate them that much. The queen doesn’t get a choice. She has to wear pantyhose All The Time. Um, no thanks.

not queen 2

I could only manage an hour of boogeying in these. And yes, I know they’re not that high.

High heels. Although I’m sure there are times when royals don’t have to wear high heels, there are entirely too many occasions that do call for the torture devices than I care to think about. I can barely manage to walk in running shoes without tripping on my own feet, how do they boogey the night away in those spikey things?

 

Protocol. A royal has to follow the protocol handbook the majority of the time. I’m pretty sure walking up to the acting American Ambassador to the Netherlands and asking him Where’s the alcohol? isn’t allowed. (And yes, that happened.)

Politically correct. Even if you think the ruler of some country or a fellow royal is a right arse, you can’t just blurt that out to them. I can’t imagine sitting across from certain controversial figures and not taking the opportunity to give them a piece of my mind.

Etiquette. I haven’t seen it written down in any rules or anything, but I’m fairly certain it’s not proper etiquette to get wasted at a state dinner. I’ve heard it’s frowned upon to wave at a waitress with your empty wine glass and yell Fill ‘er up.

You won’t catch me reading any romances about silly girls falling in love with an incognito prince from some heretofore unknown kingdom. Nope. Not I. The King’s brother saying hi to me in the supermarket is as close as I’m ever going to get to being a royal.

 

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