How long did did happily-ever-after last for Cinderella?

This week, I’ve been thinking about Cinderella.

I’ve been thinking about her a lot, wondering how long she stayed "happy" after she landed the Prince and the castle? Was it eternal bliss, or did she eventually go back to worrying about more mundane matters, like pesky royal in-laws, or her pecking order at court? In a real-life example, Princess Diana certainly showed us that sometimes there's nada happily ever after.

By way of background, I should say that, of late, things have been going pretty darned well for me. Maybe not fairy-tale well, but definitely “pinch me—is it real?” kind-of-well.

Here’s a partial list of my current blessings:

My family is healthy and happy (this one has to come first on anyone’s list).
I have several great friends.
I have a new mystery series coming out.
I was recently gifted with a second house, a killer sports car, and some enviable bling.

Life, as they say, is good.

So you’d think that I’d be wandering around the house all the time with a big, goofy grin plastered across my face.

Instead, I find myself scrabbling for things to worry about. Like, how do I guarantee that my second book will surpass the first? Is my college-age daughter locking her doors at night? When is the Big One going to strike California (and what’s the deductible on my earthquake insurance?).

When nothing else works, I’ll watch CNN and fret about global warming, wondering if I should have eschewed my nice little Z4 for an earth-friendlier Prius.

I once read about a study that found that people have a default level of happiness—or unhappiness, whichever applies. This study posited that, long term, a change in an individual’s life circumstances is irrelevant to his or her “happiness” level. Oh, their moods will have ups and downs, depending on unknown and unpredictable factors such as a sudden trauma, or winning the Lotto. But according to this study, almost no matter what happens, most people eventually return to their original state of happiness. I recall the researcher saying that even someone hit by a devastating injury, such as Chris Reeve, probably eventually regained a semblance of his original level of happiness.

That must be why my mind is foraging for things to feel down about: life has removed some of its former obstacles, and somewhere in my brain, a gray cell is itching to even up the score. But from now on, whenever it does that, I’m just going to shout it down. Down, avenging brain cell! Down!

One reassuring thing: Cinderella seemed happy as a person, even before she met the Prince (at least, she was in the Disney version of the story). So odds are that this particular couple did live happily, ever after.

Anyway, that’s the fairy tale.

What about you? Do you have a “level set” of happiness (or unhappiness) that you eventually return to, no matter what brickbats or bouquets life throws your way?

Guilty pleasure of the week: The Biggest Loser

As a former fattie (okay, granted—I still have a ways to go—but at least I’m no longer morbidly obese), I experience a vicarious thrill whenever I watch Bravo TV’s The Biggest Loser.

As I watch a three-hundred person lug to the top of a seven-story tower, huffing every step of the way, a part of me cringes inside, thinking, “How can they put themselves out there like that?” But a part of me cheers them on, and gets caught up in the suspense as they step onto that scale at the end of the week to find out which team lost the most weight.

Confession time

Last year, when the producers of The Biggest Loser tempted the show’s dieters with a malevolent tower of cupcakes, I wanted to throw my diet tools in their general direction, to exact some payback.

So…?

So here’s the question: why am I so drawn to this show? I think it’s because it amplifies the everyday drama of my bathroom scale—Am I up? Am I down? Am I winning the battle? Losing?—writ large. Writ very large.

Fat people, it turns out, are the stuff of prime-time drama. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll sign off with a quote from no less an authority than The Bard himself:

Let me have men about me that are fat,

Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o’ nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.

On the other hand, I suspect that Cassius was a much more dramatic character than the “men…that are fat.”

Food for thought.

Princess Diana's Last Resting Place

A Trip to Althorp…

In many ways, Althorp looks like any other old English estate. As is common, the expansive grounds surround the home so completely that the building cannot be seen from the road. Sheep graze serenely in adjacent fields, part of a 13,000-acre estate. Twin gate houses flank a long alley leading to the weathered stone 131-room mansion. A field facing the gates is set aside for visitors. Cars are parked in muddy, unpaved spaces interrupted by struggling tufts of grass. The day I visited with my friend Venetta the sky was streaked with dark swaths of moody blue, threatening rain.

Signs directed us up the drive, around the side of the house, and into a brick-paved courtyard surrounded by converted stables. One had been turned into a small shop with a big display window. Front and center were leather bound copies of Diana’s eulogy written by her brother.

Venetta and I walked over for a closer look. To our amazement, inside the store stood Diana’s brother, Charles, the 9th Earl Spencer.

Why Prince Charles Married Diana and Not Camilla…

A lot has been said about why Prince Charles was discouraged from marrying Camilla and encouraged to marry Diana. The young woman’s suitability has been much touted: she was a virgin, young, biddable and of good family. But the reason that strikes me as most likely—and I saw proof with my own eyes—was the Spencer family’s good looks.

Diana’s brother took my breath away. All I can compare him to is a model on the cover of a romance novel.

The images of him at Diana’s funeral do not do him justice. Her brother’s features are not perfect, but his coloring is gorgeous and his physicality, well, he’s tall, lithe and well-built. His eyes are an unusual blue, and his every movement is graceful, poetic even. If his sister was anything like him—and I’m sure she was—I can see why the royal family was excited about bringing into “the firm” a beautiful, fairytale princess.

By the way, this idea isn’t original: an article in a UK magazine posited that Diana was selected expressly to bring height and attractive features to the royal bloodline. And that she did. According to the magazine writer, Camilla simply wasn’t good-looking enough for the job.

A Line Omitted from the Eulogy…

Inside the converted stables was a display of Diana’s personal artifacts. Some of her designer dresses and jewels, family photos, her childhood scrapbook and toys, dried petals from tribute flowers, and so on, were arranged in floor to ceiling glass cases. One item of particular interest: her brother’s original draft of the eulogy. (See http://www.spiritual-medium.com/ditrib.htm) In the movie The Queen, Charles, the Earl Spencer, is shown speaking at the funeral with these very papers in hand. His remarks were typewritten--except for a few words inserted by hand and later crossed out right after the part about "thanking God." In that added and omitted phrase, he also thanked Dodi Fayed for making the last months of his sister’s life happy ones.

The Island…

Behind the main house, Diana is buried on a tiny man-made island in the midst of a tiny pond. I suspect her brother gave thought to the thousands of visitors and decided it was best to control the crowds by making his sister’s resting place inaccessible. (The tiny white "spot" in the photo on my scrapbook page is the urn atop her plinth on the island.)

Facing the island is a white stone structure, two stories high, with simple columns and “DIANA” centered under the eaves. Sheltered by the overhang is a large cameo portrait of Diana and a severe black bench.

How isolated Diana is! She’s not spending eternity near her sons. Nor is she buried near anyone who loved her. She’s by herself on the island. Even in death, Diana is alone, a curiosity, a photo opportunity, an outsider, and a spectacle.

Saving Althorp…

A portion of the family home is open to visitors for a fee. Charles, Earl Spencer, lives in the rest of the building part of the year. Venetta and I paid to be herded by docents through a mainly unremarkable old house. Like other old English manors, it must cost a fortune to maintain. Most memorable were the twin staircases mirroring each other and leading from the main floor to the second. At the top of one is a life-sized portrait of Charles, Earl Spencer. The rolled scroll in his hand is Diana’s eulogy. Facing him at the top of the other staircase is a life-sized portrait of his sister.

Shortly before she died, Diana had asked her brother if she could come live in a small cottage on the estate. He told her, “No.”

But Diana has come home. Not to live. Certainly forever. In death she generates the money necessary to keep Althorp in the family for generations to come.

Confessions of a Rexophiliac

I plead guilty to a case of rexophilia.

It’s my own little term combining “rex” for “king” and “philio” for “attraction or affinity.” Feel free to share it; spreading this linguistic spore will surely make its usage grow.

Yes, I’m admitting it: I savor tidbits of knowledge and little brushes with royalty. I think it started when I learned as a child that my mother’s family is descended from Robert the Bruce. Our coat of arms includes the lion rampant, a symbol reserved for those of royal blood. King William I "The Lion" (1143-1214) adopted as his heraldic device the king of beasts 'rampant' i.e. rearing up with three paws outstretched. This became the Scottish royal coat of arms and was incorporated into the Great Seal of Scotland for official documents. Legend has it that the inspiration came from King William's own lion that he supposedly kept in Edinburgh castle. (My name, Joanna, is Hebrew in origin, but the first Joanna in the United States came from Scotland and was my ancestress.)

With this in mind, when we moved to the UK, I found myself in royalty nirvana. Watching royals there is like celebrity spotting here. Or like talking about our sports teams. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone has a story, and you can connect with all sorts of folks in all sorts of strata by chatting about the royals.

Here’s one of my favorite encounters: When we moved to the UK, we needed furniture. (We discovered that what we thought was the annual cost to rent furniture was a monthly fee.) Especially mattresses. So we were shopping and wound up in the place where Queen Elizabeth bought her mattress. (I have no idea how; we certainly didn't have "aspirations" to expensive mattresses.) The salesman started telling us about her, how cheap she is, and how she calls up every couple of years and says, "HRH here."

Can you imagine? It's rather like Trump referring to himself in third person. Evidently, Queen Elizabeth gets her mattresses re-stuffed on a regular basis with--stand back--HORSE HAIR!

Fortunately, I'm extremely allergic to horses, so my husband David and I could nod solemnly and say, "Oh, so sorry. We'd love to buy one of your ridiculously, excessively, stupendously expensive mattresses that won't fit any beds at home in the US but because of allergies we must decline...."

Now I’m curious. How many of you are rexophiles? If you are, and if you leave a comment saying so, I’ll write about my correspondence with Prince Charles. (Yes, and I’m not joking. I’ll even scan the letter and add it to this blog. But you have to let me know…)

I'll also upload my photo of HRH taken when we both were at Ascot--as soon as Blogger fixes its uploading glitch.

But...YOU have to let me know! Are you interested? Do you, too, harbor an interest in the doings of royalty?