1981
There was a young woman, and a prince. She was only just twenty years old. He was thirty three.
I was five.
The young woman was portrayed as shy, pensive. Beautiful. Pure. The prince wasn't handsome, but he had power. He would be the King one day. So by marrying the Prince, the young woman would become a real live princess!!
To mark such a Special Occasion, I was going to be allowed to watch The Wedding on television. Late at night. What a treat!
The young woman arrived at the beautiful old abbey in a froth of silk and lace. She cast her eyes down and batted her lashes. She was walked down the aisle to her Prince by her father.
After the formalities, they drove away from the church in an open horse drawn carriage to live happily ever after. They looked so happy and it was like a fairytale.
I was in awe.
1995
I walked down the aisle of my childhood church, resplendent in polyester and guipure lace and pearl beading. I had found my prince and I was going to live happily ever after too.
I was nineteen.
2005
The young prince and princess did not have a happily ever after. They were happy for a while, but it was all wrong. Just wrong. The prince was in love with someone else. But all the rules and the eyes of everyone. The fresh young woman was the best choice for everyone else.
The prince and princess parted ways, and a year later she was dead in a terrible accident.
The prince was now a middle aged man. He returned to the woman he should have married.
They had a civil ceremony. No abbey this time. No fairytale. Pain and heartache - so much hurt, but they came back to love - without rules. With their rules.
I was twenty nine.
2011
There was a young prince and a young woman. He was third in line to the throne, and she worked for her family business in marketing and design. She was educated and self reliant.
I was thirty five.
I assembled with other women to celebrate. We dressed up in hats and we ate English food. The Men assembled at another home to watch the rugby. Because this wedding business is women's stuff. Pfftt.
The young woman arrived at the beautiful abbey with her simple gown with a touch of lace. She walked down the aisle to her prince. He was dressed like his father was in 1981 - resplendent in red.
My daughter was four.
2018
There was a young prince and a young woman. She had been married before. She was a biracial American actor. She had already made ripples about gender stereotypes before she was a teenager by writing an objection to the idea that only women engage in household tasks.
The young prince had talked openly about the pain of losing his mother. About how important it is to feel. To talk. To be open.
I was forty two.
I hadn't watched the television drama that the young woman was the star of. I knew the prince because I had seen his whole life since before he was even in existence.
I largely ignored the build up to the wedding. In the last few years I had become cynical about marriage. It was an oppressive patriarchal tradition based in the concept of women as chattels. I understood the desire to make a public statement about the person you wanted to commit your life to, but I wasn't sure how feminist 'a wedding' was.
But the people watching was fun. The television ended up being on, and there were so many interesting people to watch, snuggled up on the couch with my partner. A renowned human rights lawyer and her actor husband. A world beating sportswoman. A popular and powerful media personality. A famous entertainer and his husband. And the prince's family.
The young woman arrived at the beautiful chapel in a plain white dress. With her mother, who had raised her on her own. The Mother had cornrows and a glittery nose piercing.
The young woman walked up the aisle - accompanied by the young prince's father part of the way, but she started on her own, and she finished on her own.
The young couple had the traditions of their cultures interwoven in the ceremony. Anglican formality and black American gospel energy.
They left the church and drove away in a horse drawn carriage. It looked like a fairytale.
My daughter was eleven.
She had gone to bed and slept through the whole thing.
