Creative Princess

If you had asked me what I wanted to be when I was five years old, I would have told you either an artist or a princess, depending on my mood. I loved my coloring book and my crayons, and I was constantly giving my beautiful works of art to my teachers and parents, and I know that they would each have had enough for a decently stuffed folder. But it made me happy to color those pages and give them to people, and I don’t ever recall noticing strain in any smile or the gritting of teeth when they said, “Thank you, Arden! It’s beautiful.”

On the days when I was not coloring, I was pretending. Pretending that I had a long, white, flowing dress and a crown. And jewels; anything sparkly had big value. I acted the part of princess—head held high, pinky out when you hold a cup or a fork—and never really saw the world outside of mine. One time, when my mother asked me to clean my room, I stood up on a chair, draped in my cape, and declared very regally to her, “I’m a princess. I don’t have to clean my room.”

Many days, I was both a princess and an artist. I designed my own castle on numerous occasions (table, chairs, and covers work wonders for the imagination) and tore my palace down just as often. I cut my crowns out of paper and decorated them with markers and glitter, after I discovered that gluing on plastic jewels made them fall off my head. I made scepters from carefully constructed wads of paper and aluminum foil, despised anything black and dreary, always wore my princess skirt, and made my little brother do everything I said (I was the princess, after all).

I don’t remember being sad and dejected when I think about that part of the past. I just smile and watch the memories play through my head as if they had been recorded and put on a DVD. And as I watch, I know one thing is for certain: the world needs more creative princesses.

Copyrighted © 2007 Arden Ashart