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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.”
And the part where my boyfriend has started to look every once in a while as if he were harboring some dark, terrible secret. That might be a good reason not to get married, or at least have a very serious talk sometime soon, though I’m really not looking forward to it.
“And what about how we don’t think it’s fair for us to marry when our many same-sex-oriented couple friends cannot?” I demanded, since there was no way I was going to mention that other thing out loud. “At least, not everywhere in the world.”
Paolo brightened. “Yes, but thanks to you, Principessa, same-sex marriage has been legal in Genovia since 2013.”
“Right,” I said. “You can marry the man you love in Genovia, but I can’t. Not without having news helicopters and quadcopter drones flying over my head, vying for as unflattering a shot of my butt as they can manage.”
Paolo looked horrified. “Why would Paolo want to get married? Paolo has so much greatness to share with many, many men. He would not want to limit this greatness to only one man forever.”
“Yes, I know, Paolo,” I said. “I’m just saying. Did you hear the part about the drones?”
That is when Paolo laid down the scissors (I’d conceded to a quarter-inch trim only) and said very firmly, “Principessa, everyone must make the sacrifice for love! That’s what makes it worth it. Even the principessas. And I think this is where you have the problem, because you think, ‘No, I am a principessa, I can do whatever I want. I do not have to sacrifice anything.’ But you do.”
“Paolo,” I said. “Have you ever even met me? I’ve sacrificed everything. I can’t even walk out my front door right now without people throwing oranges at me.”
“I think you need right now to find the balance,” he went on, ignoring me. “For life, you never know where the road will take you. Yours took you to a place where you got the diamond shoes, but now all you can says is, ‘Ow! These diamond shoes! They fit so tight and hurt so much!’ No one wants to hear about how tight your diamond shoes fit. You got the diamond shoes! Many people, they have no shoes at all.”
“Uh,” I interrupted. “I think you mean glass slippers. Cinderella had glass slippers—”
“So you got to decide, Principessa, what are you going to do, put on your diamond shoes and go to the dance? Or take them off and stay home? I know what I would do if someone give me diamond shoes. I would go to the dance, and I would never stop dancing until my feet fell off.”
