I Was a Princess

My name means princess, in case you didn’t know.  Sara is princess in Hebrew.  My mother is very aware of that fact, and growing up involved way too many princess shirts.  Princess has developed a negative connotation in my mind.  I have no desire to be dainty, fragile, etc.

Fast forward to this year, living on E3.  My RA got a word from God saying that our floor should be princess themed.  Gag.  I’m all for God speaking, and I don’t doubt that God gave her this word.  But that doesn’t mean that I have to like it.  We went to broom-ball  an event that my school puts on every year, dressed as princesses.  Obviously I didn’t dress up.  I’m not a princess.  I don’t want to be royalty.  I don’t want to marry a prince.  Even though I can’t take care of myself, this doesn’t mean that I don’t want to.  I don’t want my life to be based on who I marry, or getting married at all.  I don’t want to go to a ball or wear glass slippers or wait to be awoken by a kiss.

However, at work on Tuesday,  I was a princess.  My boss asked me to scrub the floor under the back-dish station.  This involved getting a scrub brush and getting down on my hands and knees.  I didn’t care, it’s part of my job, but I suddenly saw myself as Cinderella.  Maybe I’m slowly warming up to this whole princess thing…

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