Royal Wedding

Generally I don’t believe in pouring out one’s hardships to one’s hairdresser, because, as Grandmère is always reminding me, “Your personal baggage should only be shared with family, Amelia . . . and the bellboy, of course.” This is pretty good advice, except that usually family members are the ones causing the baggage problems, so I find that therapists and good friends can be more helpful with it.

But Paolo has been around so long, he’s like family. So before I knew it, it all came tumbling out.

This turned out to be one of the few times I should have listened to Grandmère.

Paolo wasn’t at all sympathetic, especially when I mentioned the fact that right after I logged off from my conversation with Lilly, I went to Google News to see what the media was saying about the protest today, and the first headline I saw was from the Post. It screamed:

“Why Won’t He Marry Mia?”

Really? That is what the editors feel is the most important news to report on today, the reasons Michael Moscovitz hasn’t proposed to me yet?

Of course it isn’t, it’s just what they think will get the most clicks.

And of course it worked, because even I clicked on it, knowing I shouldn’t have, because Michael and I are mature adults and of course we’ve discussed marriage at length, and the decision we’ve come to (and our reason for it) is our business and ours alone.

(Except of course that my grandmother thinks it should be her business and so she’s always asking me with elaborate casualness, “So when do you think you and Michael will be getting married?” the way other people ask, “So when do you think you and Michael will be coming over for drinks?”)

But apparently the Post thinks it is everyone’s business, since they’ve printed the reasons they believe Michael doesn’t want to marry me, which include (but are not limited to):

1.   The fact that after we’re married, Michael will have to give up his American citizenship and be called Prince Michael, Royal Consort. (True.)

2.   He’ll have to be escorted at all times by bodyguards. (True.)

3.   He’ll have to attend charity benefits practically every night of the week, which, while being extremely worthy and fulfilling, can also be quite exhausting. (True. I can’t tell you how much I feel like staying home some nights in my rattiest pajamas, eating pizza straight out of the box while watching Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs and his team take roguish miscreants to task on NCIS, rather than having to dress up and shake the hands of wealthy strangers who only want to talk about their last safari, then listen to a speech about Latvia’s rich cultural heritage.)

4.   Someone will always be sending their hobby drone over to spy on us, usually at the exact moment I’ve had too many daiquiris and decided it will be perfectly all right to go topless. (Which happened once, and I think it might have been the Post that bought those photos. Still, once is too many.)

5.   Someday he’ll have to move himself and his entire business to Genovia full-time. (Sadly, this is also true.)

6.   The fact that I only wear platform wedges because I still haven’t mastered the art of walking gracefully in high-heeled shoes and that sometimes when I do I’m actually as tall or taller than Michael. (True, but why would this be a reason a man wouldn’t marry a woman, unless of course he had very low self-esteem, which Michael does not?)

7.   Michael’s alleged dislike of my getting involved with the politics of constitutional monarchies. (Blatantly false.)

8.   Our having “drifted apart” in recent days due to our busy careers. (FALSE. At least I hope it’s false. It better be false. Oh, God, please let it be false!)

9.   My family. (True. So true.)

“I don’t suppose it’s ever occurred to the editors of the Post that if Michael and I have drifted apart—which we haven’t—it’s because of them,” I complained to Paolo after having read this list aloud in a comical voice. Dr. Knutz, my unfortunately named therapist, recommends I do this whenever I see mean-spirited comments or stories about myself. Reading them aloud in a comical voice is supposed to help make them hurt less.

But it doesn’t. Nothing does. Except refusing to look at them in the first place.

“The press has a field day with my name every time I get caught in the morning sneaking out of Michael’s place downtown, or he gets caught sneaking out of mine. Do you know what Page Six called me the last time a photographer spied me coming out of Michael’s building?” I asked Paolo. “The Princess of Gen-HO-via!”

Paolo put his hand over his mouth to pretend like he was horrified, but I could tell he was secretly laughing behind his fingers. Only there’s nothing funny about the other names the media has called me, including:

•  Shame of Thrones.

•  Bad Idea Mia.

•  He’ll Never Buy the Cow If He Can Get the Milk for Free-a, Mia.

And of course now, Why Won’t He Marry Mia. (Get it? Why Won’t He Marry Me-Ah? Ha ha.)

You would think that in the enlightened era in which we live, a single girl could have a boyfriend and a career and also a healthy sex life (and help her father to rule a country) without getting called names.

But apparently this is too much to ask of some people.

“You know, there are very good reasons to marry—tax advantages, and the fact that married people live longer and report a higher degree of happiness overall than single people, and things like that,” I said to Paolo. “But Michael and I have just as valid reasons for not marrying, like that marriage is an antiquated institution that ends in divorce almost half the time, and that we’re perfectly happy with our relationship status the way it is . . . except for the part where we never get to see one another, even though we live in the same city.”