PREFACE: I wrote this a few weeks ago. My uber-lethargic self only got around to posting it now. Sorry Charlies.
Wedding always catch me off guard. The general rule is that they affect me about as much as half caff coffee—I don’t feel a damn thing. But throw in some royalty and that sweet angel from heaven, Kate Middleton, and I was a bag of sniffles watching the highlights at my desk at work.
Just pathetic.
Like everyone else on planet earth, I was enthralled by last week’s royal wedding. I didn’t think I would be so giddy until the morning of and I was logging onto my computer with the speed and urgency of a computer code analyst trying to abort nuclear warfare . And lo and behold, to my surprise she and Pippa were dressed in Sarah Burton for McQueen. You could have knocked me over with a feather.
I really and truly thought she’d be wearing a)Emanual Ungaro b)Marchesa or c)Badgley Mischka. I was already emotionally vulnerable from learning of her gown choice–a beautiful nod to the late British designer. Then the clear resemblance to Princess Grace’s dress hit me and to top of it off the first hymn played at the ceremony was the last hymn played at Princess Diana’s funeral. Oh the tears. Oh God, the tears.
I was all ready to shove my foot right up Pippa’s Duchess of Cornwall for wearing white to her ethereal sister’s wedding, but apparently it’s tradition. Well did you really need to wear a low-draping cowl neck dress, Pippers? Did you? Really? It wasn’t enough that the dress was snug-fitting and ass-clinging? No? You really felt the draped cowl neck was necessary?
Long story short, I want to be Kate Middleton when I grow up and I’m devising a plan to raise my future unborn children in the UK so they can go to St. Andrew’s and marry royalty as well. The end.
