Prince Harry, My Prince Charming
Carrie’s royally in love
Well, we all prayed vigorously that this day would come. I just don’t think it’s fair for me to carry on the facade any longer. It’s finally time for me to hang up my single shoes and call it a good dating decade. You see, I’ve just met my Prince Charming.
Or rather, I know exactly where and when I’m going to meet my Prince Charming. So why waste anybody else’s time?
The where? The Manhattan Polo Classic, of course. Held annually on New York’s historic Governors Island.
The when? May 30. Probably early afternoon, but it really depends on the light and the mood of the ponies.
The who, you ask? None other than Harry, Prince of Wales.
The Telegraph reports that Prince Harry is making his first official trip to the United States this month. While they haven’t released his official schedule, we know two things for certain.
One: He’s playing in the polo match to benefit, Sentebale, a charity which aids African AIDS orphans. (The charity was created to honor Princess Diana, but has faced recent criticism that it’s about to go into bankruptcy, so Harry’s stepping up to the fundraising plate.)
Two: Harry is going to meet, fancy and wed me.
I don’t care if I have to stuff myself inside a wooden pony or hurl myself onto the grounds in a dress made of divots. This Ms. is turning into an HRH.
Now why, you may ask, am I going for Harry instead of Wills?
No doubt, it’s a difficult choice. William is more handsome, more dashing, more refined, more stable, more next in line to be king.
Harry is more immature, more impetuous, more untameable, more likely to wear a Nazi uniform to a costume party.
And yet. Just last week I bought a plane ticket to Manhattan for May 30. I’ll be in town the exact day Harry arrives. The universe is clearly telling me something about my royal matrimonial future.
Sure, Queen Carrie would be a pretty rad title to throw on my JC Penney card. But I’ve gotta go with the signs from above on this. Princess Carrie it is.
Plus, I figure that Harry’s already set the bar pretty low for himself, what with the Nazi costume and the racial slurs and all. So if I happen to have a few cocktails and accidently flash the paparazzi as I climb out of his helicopter in my teeny-tiny Top Shop skirt–eh, no harm done.
Here’s how I envision things going down: Harry sits tall upon his polo pony, in all his carrot-top glory. He strokes her mane and says, “Well done, Mexican Swine Flu. Good girl.” I casually stroll over and whisper that he might want to rethink that particular name given this cautious time and the “unfortunate” cultural insensitivities of his past. I suggest we just call her Misty.
Harry beams at me with gratitude, suddenly taken with my brown-and-white polka-dot dress. Yes, I reply, it is the exact dress Julia Roberts wore in Pretty Woman. We stomp divots and laugh over a glass of Champagne, celebrating his win and the millions of dollars we just raised for Diana’s charity. And my student loans.
He flies me by helicopter to the top of the Statue of Liberty. (On the way over, I use my BlackBerry to enroll him in a racial sensitivity course at Phoenix Online University.) He alights on the torch and proposes with the crown jewels. I mouth “yes” over the whirr of the chopper blades. Prince Harry can’t hear me, but his heart knows my answer.
A marriage is made. A destiny is fulfilled. A princess is born.
Bye-bye dating column, hello tiara.