I love fairy tales. Always have. Whether they’re the happy, upbeat Disney versions or the much darker originals, I just enjoy those types of stories.
Sadly, however, my life is not a fairy tale. And I’m pretty sure it’s my fault for the following reasons:
- While I love to dance, I’m not that big on going to formalized dance events. Much more prone to the living room boogie.
- It does not matter how good it looks, I would never gnaw on someone else’s house.
- I don’t care if he hopped off his lily pad, recited sonnets and brought me a Dr. Pepper – I’m not kissing a frog. I am, however, willing to be just friends.
- If I awoke from a deep slumber to find someone standing over me, my first instinct would not be to smile, but to throw a fist.
- I see someone in shining armor I’m likely to assume that they’re either vain or just haven’t actually done anything yet.
- If any woodland creatures ever showed up in my bedroom to help me get dressed, my gut reaction would not be gratitude.
- I’d totally be down for a good quest, but if success means I’m bound to marrying a stranger? I’m tapping out.
- If there’s a bright and beautiful object and I’m told repeatedly that touching it will lead to horror and evil, I’m not going to touch the damn thing. Look with your eyes, folks.
- A strange wolf tells me that all the really pretty flowers are deeper in the wood? I’m going to say no thanks and run home to stick my carnations in some water with food coloring. Safe AND festive.
- If I can have all my wishes come true, but only if I turn my back on everyone in my past, I’m going to find some new wishes.
Clearly, the lacking of fairy tale times in my life is my fault entirely. My brain just wasn’t wired to make fairy tale appropriate decisions.
At least I burst into inappropriately timed songs.
That’s something, I guess.