On the Difficulties of Being a Prince

Whenever I imagine changing the trajectory of my life, I mull over this story and worry if I’ll truly be able to.

One day, I am sitting there in the swamp and I am the frog. I am YAAAAAWN-ing and stretching and eating my flies, when all of a sudden, some bored girl comes and SMOOCHES me on the forehead.

I can’t explain why, but my little arms grow long and strong, and my repellant face is now handsome and youthful and refined. Where once I had the grossest, stubbiest toes, now my feet certainly belong in tights and slippers. Look at my elegant legs, and my gorgeous hair. I am a prince!

And my God, my challenging God. It appears that this mysterious kissy girl likes me! I have done nothing at all, but she is pulling my hand and off I am to her palace, the most gorgeous of places. She fancies me, and thus I get to lead the fanciest life. No, I didn’t do anything but — to tell you the truth — I sort of feel like I deserve all of this.

I am there and the King likes me and the Queen likes me and the servants rejoice and that’s pretty much the story.

At what point do I admit to myself that there’s no freaking way it’s going to work out? During which etiquette lesson will I end up losing it? Because every morning, I wake up in a panic. I am terrified to look at my hands and see webbed fingers. I am horrified that whenever I hiccup, it’ll be my long tongue again slipping out.

And so I constantly need reassurance that I’m beautiful. Because sometimes, I will stare in the mirror and I will deceive myself into seeing frog-like features on my princely face. Under the right light, my little nose will look monstrously snout-ish. And my teeth will look too small and squishy.

And whenever someone dares bring up something aquatic — oh! I can’t help it! I can’t! I stomp my princely feet in agitation! People and their metaphors! I hear, “Give a man a fish,” and all I feel is a strong jab at my side. The chef says we’re having duck with red cabbage and madeira gravy and my mind is not thinking about the shallots at all. At all. I am thinking that everyone at the table is slyly snickering at me.

Oh! All day, all day I think about living up to this standard. Be a prince. Be a prince! And all day, I am constantly thinking of how I’m not.

Oh! For better or worse, I will always be the frog. I know this is true, I know it is! And thus I will make it so. Yes, I will go back to my swamp, slippers and tights. So be it!

And if my tongue remains this delicate four-inch length…well that is plenty long enough for me to enjoy my flies — the only snack I have ever been truly satisfied with.

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