Did I ever mention to you that practically at the top of my bucket list is to have and hold my own crown? I don’t mean one of those cutesy little bridal tiaras with little side combs that you can buy at craft stores. Nor do I want one of those cardboard cut-out things compliments of a 14 year old behind the burger counter.
I want a crown. An honest-to-God, high on the head, Princess Diana genuine sapphire and diamond, armed guard following me around CROWN. Now some people make a statement like this and maybe even get the coveted crown and wear it for a photo or to show the girls, and then carefully place it back in the mahogany velvet lined case and store it in the closet. Or a safe deposit box.
Not me. I will wear my crown like the badge of honor it will be. My crown. Designed just for my “nobody’s seen the trouble I’ve seen, God doesn’t give you more than you can handle, don’t cry over spilt milk” existence, and my “I still get butterflies when the hubs kisses me, that which does not kill me only makes me stronger, and God will not give me more than I can handle” life as I know it. My crown would be my signature to be shared with the world at large.
I will walk to Wegman’s with my shopping cart in tow and my crown atop my head for all to enjoy. I will oh-so-carefully hand it over to the security man at the airport while I clear the beepy machine, with a short instruction on resting the crown in the palm of the hand and “on no, please don’t touch the precious stones with your fingers as body oils could surely taint the brilliance. I will take my place on the gyno’s exam table donning the gown (open in the back, please) with the clarity of perfectly cut diamonds bringing a bit of glamour to an otherwise not so sparkly place to be.
Ah, yes. My crown will be worn for all to enjoy. The children at iHop will ooh and ahh and little girls will wonder if they are in the presence of royalty. The man behind the counter at the post office will quietly wonder if the person standing in front of him might be just a smidge off the mark. Ladies at the florist will smile and cast questioning glances at each other, thinking I cannot see. When they get home from work, they will be talking about the lady wearing the crown today and secretly wanting their own.