Once upon a time

So, are you watching on Friday?

Oh, come on. 'Fess up. I won't tell. I'll think you're a lunatic, but I won't tell.

If you haven't a clue as to what I'm talking about, well, kudos, my friend. But, umm, you are sort of uninformed, tho', aren't you? As the rest of the sentient universe knows, Wills and Kate are finally tying the knot on Friday and the whole world will be watching.

My students were rather surprised and, in fact, somewhat dismayed to discover I am not planning to get up at 3 am to watch the live coverage of the wedding. "But you're a British historian," they protested. "This is history! Being made!" Which would be sort of cute and adorable if I hadn't just spent a semester trying to teach them a slightly more nuanced definition of history and the making thereof.

It's not like I dislike the Royal Family. I don't. When I'm in the checkout line, I'll always pull down the magazine with a royal on the cover. Beats Brangelina and Britney any day. And in fact, I have something of an exotic pedigree as a royal watcher. I don't imagine there are many other Americans who can boast hosting a Queen's Jubilee Garden Party.

It was all Hugh's fault, of course. While we were living in Manchester, the Queen celebrated her Golden Jubilee. Hugh, then about six, attended the local primary school where they held a picnic on the Friday afternoon in the Queen's honor. Hugh came home simply on fire about the whole concept of the Jubilee and proceeded to draw up and distribute invitations to a Jubilee Garden Party in our back yard ("back garden," in Brit speak) to the entire neighborhood. Without telling us. So suddenly on Saturday afternoon, we found ourselves with a party on our hands. I think, had we not been "The Americans," the party would not have happened. But, confronted with this (seemingly legit) invitation from The Americans celebrating Our Queen, the neighbors were too embarrassed not to come--and come they did. And stay they did. We ransacked the fridge and cupboards and concocted weird party food on the spot and once we had drained our actually rather abundant liquor supply, the neighbors dashed back to their houses and returned with six-packs of beer. Hugh's Garden Party turned into one of the highlights of our three-year sojourn, an alcohol-sodden, pretzel-and-cake-filled, hours and hours-long delight in the rare Manchester sunshine, complete with beery toasts to a portrait of Her Maj.

So, no, I'm not opposed to the Royal Family. I'm not opposed to Wills or Kate. I'll even make sure I buy a souvenir wedding mug this summer, to match the Charles and Diana cup in which I keep my pens.

And yes, way back when Diana tumbled into marriage with the yet-debonair Charles, I did watch the ceremony live--from a tiny living room of a rented house in what was then West Germany, crowded on the carpet with the 25 other students with whom I was spending the summer traveling in Europe.

And then, a week later, in a London still bedecked with wedding bunting, I stood in line in the pouring rain (not your typical London mist, mind you, but torrential drenching rain, with tremendous cracks of thunder and spectacular blasts of lightning) for several hours and then tramped through St. James Palace, soaking wet and muddy, to view the Wedding Gifts. Room after room filled with not only the various precious items sent by various global dignitaries of behalf of various unsuspecting publics--I believe the American People gave Charles and Diana an American Primitive painting--but also, and so much more interesting, the ordinary gifts sent by ordinary people to a couple they seemed to believe would be happily ordinary. Yes, the toaster from Paul and Sheila Thomas of Somerset, the tea cozy from Thomas and Margaret Ashton of Kent, the plastic picnicware from George and Vera Barnes of Birmingham. As if Charles and Diana, like Paul and Sheila and Thomas and Margaret and George and Vera before them, were really embarking on an ordinary, toast-making, tea-drinking, picnic-laden married life.

Such innocence. Rather like The Dress. That amazing puffball dress. The Fairy Princess Dress. Only a 19-year-old blonde virgin could pull off that dress.

Kate, the fashion commentators assured me as I was flipping thru the channels several nights ago, Kate will not wear such a dress. Hers will be more sophisticated and slender, more befitting her willowy frame and the worldly wisdom of her 28 years. And Kate has not been subjected to a physical exam to confirm her virginity, with the results trumpeted across the globe. We have moved on. Good for us. Good for Kate.

Still. Hardly worth getting up at 3 am for, is it?