I am often referred to as a “Princess.” It’s usually because the world has not recognized my rightful place in high society; the people in my life intentionally mean to mock me.
I live on my own time and do not adhere to Father Time’s ridiculous rules. If I could, I would have a butler a la Downton Abbey who brings me French-pressed coffee upon waking. I do not like physical labor, including but not limited to: cleaning, ironing, heavy lifting or working out.
I dream of the day I have a personal hairdresser…and driver.
If that isn’t enough to convince you this princess can lower herself to the status of commoners, brace yourself while I tell you I once lived in Madagascar for two and half months! When I say “lived” I don’t mean in a dorm or apartment.
The Beast was the backpack I bought before my trip. The misleading salesman at the camp things store convinced me that bigger is better. Go figure.
The Beast was bigger than me, and I’m not a petite girl. I carried The Beast for two and a half months. Each day, it seemed to get heavier no matter how many items I left behind in each of our camp grounds.
My friends and I named the backpack because it was big enough to be its own character in the hellish trip. No matter what went wrong, or how far we had to walk carrying our gear, The Beast was there…strapped to my back…almost causing me to keel over.
By the time I returned back to civilization, The Beast was on its last leg. Still, I took it back to the store and demanded they give me an appropriate backpack…one I’ve never used.
These last couple of weeks have reminded me of how tough I was back in Madagascar. The trip was one of those things you do in your early 20s when you think you’re invincible. While I chose it back then, I would never attempt it now.
As I’ve mentioned in a prior article, I was mandatorily evacuated from my apartment in Manhattan due to Sandy. I’m now on day 20 of being exiled to New Jersey!
My apartment was deemed uninhabitable after the storm. You might be imagining my apartment swimming somewhere in the Hudson River, but it isn’t. It is perfectly in tact. But because I live in a luxury Manhattan skyscraper, since there is no power / heat / water, it is deemed uninhabitable. My building is the closest I could come to a castle on my budget.
A little over a week ago, I had to visit my apartment to clean out my fridge and get more clothes. I knew there was no power, which meant no elevators. This, I thought, is the least of my problems.
I was more fearful of the smell from my fridge that would assault me as I entered my apartment. I was wrong. The 22 flights of stairs were definitely the bigger issue. Let me just take a moment to mention I climbed to my apartment in about 20 minutes…I deserve an Olympic metal!
As I panted up the stairs, I counted down out loud as I approached each level. At first I was quite scared. It was pitch black and anyone could have attacked me. I hoped there wasn’t a murderer hiding in the stairwell, but then realized he wouldn’t be able to see me anyway. He (or she…don’t want to discriminate) would just hear my groaning as I climbed in agony.
By the 15th floor, I expected my heart to jump out of my chest. It was beating so hard that I was sure it was echoing through out the building. About mid way through, another tenant was walking down the stairs. I was taken aback by his lack of friendliness. But maybe he wasn’t impressed with my breathy, near-death “hi.”
I finally made it to my freezing apartment only to discover the building staff, a.k.a. the help, had been in my fridge and thrown out things that wouldn’t have rotted like my muffins (I think they just ate them), and left me with rotted vegetables.
Roughing it on a tropical island or in a Manhattan skyscraper is doable, but both are beneath a princess of my stature.
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