"Once upon a time . . . ," and so the story goes, " they all lived happily ever after."

You know those stories our mothers used to read us -- where the frog turns into a prince, Snow White's true love kisses her awake, and where the prince with a shoe fetish rescues Cinderella from a life of hard labor over a sooty hearth.

But what about me? Is there any kind of fairy tale about a slightly tarnished, middle-aged woman working her asterisks off trying to stay one jump ahead of the wolf, who finally gets rescued by a handsome love who'll cherish her ever after, warts and all?

"This is real life, Thelma. Get a grip." (A bit of sensible advice, there, from my level-headed friend Louise.)

Believe me, I'm well aware that fairy tales seldom happen in real life, where the wicked-stepmother syndrome all too often prevails, and where blended families end up curdled in the blender.

Many a would-be rescuer vanishes in the face of weekend visitations and long-term debt management.

Here in our keep-the-treadmill-running, workaday world, reality dictates that we make our payments so the bank doesn't repossess the car, and that we get the check deposited before all the overdraft charges hit.

And when the wash machine blows a gasket or the hot water heater conks out, you can't count on a single, wrench-wielding prince to show up to fix the offending monsters (without having to pay a hefty price for the service call, that is).

Reality forces today's damsel-in-distress to know the difference between a crescent wrench and a pair of vise grips. And necessity requires that she learn to use them both, too.

I've finally come to realize that no matter what disasters I have to face, no matter what the obstacles (or monsters) that block my path, I do have the inner resources to deal with them.

There aren't a whole lot of dragons left that can scare this damsel, anymore.

Yet, no matter how independent I think I've become, or how well I've managed to cope with life alone, a part of me hopes that one day, I'll still find a prince of my very own.

Call me an incurable optimist (or maybe just a little touched in the head), but no matter how many times I fall flat on my face in the mud (or how many frogs I have to kiss while I'm down here) I still can't help hoping that a handsome love will find me and rescue me from this mud puddle, and that he'll cherish me ever after -- warts and all.

You see, no matter how unlikely it may seem, I still believe the fairy tale.

---

You may send questions or comments to The Crackpot at .

---

Home • Sample Columns • MaryLee Marilee • Crackpot Kudos
Guest Book • Crackpot's Favorite Books • Publication/Syndication

---