I’ve got one; you’ve probably got one too: an inner princess. She prefers luxury hotels, sparkling wine and men who hold open doors for her. Neither diva nor debutante, she is glamorous and sophisticated, worldly and well read.
My inner princess is made-up. She’s a persona I use with a wink and a smile while appreciating moments of the good life. She’s not the real me who sweats a bit too much while working out and may or may not have been caught
picking scratching my nose at a stoplight. Inner princess is me, only airbrushed.
This year, on my birthday, I wore a tiara to work and paired it with a good sense of humor to laugh at myself as I got another year older. Inner princess appreciated all the birthday attention, especially in the morning traffic jam on the Hollywood Freeway as people smiled and waved at Her Royal Highness, me.
I’m only a princess for fleeting moments of my own imagination. I never, ever take my inner princess seriously, which is precisely why she is so fun. If I was a real princess, I’d want to melt down my crown and give the cash-for-gold to literacy programs. I’d travel to the far away countryside (like Palm Springs and Ojai) to visit mom-and-pop establishments and shake hands with the common people. I’d go to comedy clubs prepared to laugh at myself.
My inner princess has good company. I also have an inner 6-year old boy who gets really excited looking at large machinery at construction sites. I have an inner old lady who loves practical shoes, watching the news and doing needlepoint in bright light. I have an inner adolescent who attempts hip-hop dance moves in front of the mirror and still battles a blemish from time to time. My imagination is a crowded place.
I’m not just one thing, I’m all these things. But when I get upgraded to first class on a trans-continental flight, it is my inner princess who does the happy dance.