The Princess Who Wears BATA

"It's true," she said. "Sometimes I do pretend I am a princess. I pretend I am a princess, so that I can try and behave like one." - Sarah Crewe in Frances Burnett's A Little Princess

Little Princesses

Almost every little girl has fantasized that perhaps the parents she is living with is not her 'real' parents, after all. Perhaps she is really a princess of an obscure little country in a remote corner of the earth, exiled or smuggled away from her royal parents at birth in an attempt to protect her from villainous vultures vying for the throne. Perhaps one day, someone will come and reinstate her title as a princess.

Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps, Princess.

I would be telling an outright lie if I were to say that as a little girl I had never even once dreamt of being a princess. This royal fantasy never lasted for long, though. I guess deep down in my heart (and even as a child), I knew I was never cut out from any royal cloth and that I would have felt extremely out of place if someone were to tell me that I had royal blood flowing through my veins.  

Why? There is something safe about being able to blend in with the crowd and to be regarded as just another ordinary member of the public. I do not envy people who are the constant target of paparazzi. My definition of being at ease does not include sucking my tummy in, pushing my chest out, holding my chin up, and going around with a back as straight as an arrow at all times. Leave all that to the soldiers! 

I want to be able to slouch when my back aches, unbutton my pants or loosen my belt when I feel bloated, eat with my elbows resting on the table, and laugh so loudly that anyone within a 500 meter radius would think that a cruise liner is on its way. 

These, to me, are the simple pleasures of life.

Imagine living the life of Kate Middleton, the Duchess of Cambridge, for one day. I bet all she wants at the end of the day is to kick off those trademark high heels of hers, and slouch on a sofa with an Archie comic in one hand and a glass of colourful Slurpee in another. But then again, maybe that's just me.

Back when I was at a marriageable age, I used to make fun of my dad's table manners (or the lack thereof). You see, my dad enjoys eating. When he eats, he gets erm ... pretty excited. By that, I mean he will forget all his table manners, glue his elbows to the table, and start slurping and burping. I would then exclaim, "This is why I can't ever marry a prince! The palace doesn't allow family members to slurp and rest their elbows on dining tables." 

Now that I am much older, I realized that I am definitely no princess material but truly my father's daughter. I do not care much about table manners, either. For one thing, I am one whom you would regret taking to a fine dining restaurant:

My colleague and I once booked for a meal at the fine dining restaurant run by the culinary students in college. Although it was not a full-fledged fine dining venue, I was very confused when I first sat down to inspect the cutlery on the table one by one. Which pieces were we supposed to use first? What was that advice I once heard long ago: work my way in or work my way out? Oh, working certainly takes the joy out of eating!

So I did what any thick-skinned lecturer would do: stop a student (who was on waitressing duty) to ask which fork I should use for the appetizer. Yeah, I may be marking your essays and correcting your enunciation, but I jolly well know that I am no expert when it comes to fine-dining.

Being the typical uncouth Chinese guests, my lunch partner and I further embarrassed ourselves when the food arrived and we instinctively exclaimed, "Huh, that's all ar? Must have Maggi mee after this." The other drawback of eating in a fine-dining restaurant is the lack of surrounding noise. That means, almost everyone around you will be able to hear most of your conversation unless you keep whispering at a decibel that is only audible to canines. Of course, others got to hear our comments about the portion. To be fair, the serving was actually very filling. We were completely stuffed at the end of the meal. The chef had just decided to use a plate that left too much empty space for our greedy eyes. Also, it was a good thing that the main dish was fish, because if it had been chicken instead, it would have taken a whole lot of effort to prevent me from eating with my fingers. How else do you do justice to a tasty piece of fried chicken? 

Eating like a glutton

Dessert failed to transform me into a refined guest. After eating the slices of mooncakes (with the correct fork, mind you), I started scraping the bottom of the plate because I thought we were meant to eat the chocolate which was deliberately smeared over the plate as part of the decoration. After a while, I gave up. 

Even if I eventually master the arts of fine-dining in future, there are still other areas to remind me that I have a looonnngg way to go before I become a princess.

People who know me well would not dare to let me entertain important guests because they know that I have an unstoppable tongue. As much as I want to appear professional and formal even for a short moment, I will usually dissolve into my loud, boisterous, unpretentious self within 15 minutes. And that is when all hell breaks loose. I will forget that I am supposed to create a good impression, or that I should be careful with my words and ensure that I do not offend the other party. There is no point showing me the family tree or the flowchart of an organization. My tongue goes on an autopilot mode and I conveniently forget all hierarchical boundaries.

Okay, even if I were to develop excellent table manners and tame my tongue, there is still another area which will disqualify me as a princess.

I am generally quite sloppy, but I think I am sloppiest when it comes to dressing. Because my figure has always been less than desirable, it has never been easy for me to get clothes that fit, let alone any that actually looks smart. Consequently, I have developed the habit of wearing only t-shirt and jeans or even stretchable slacks (since my jeans keep shrinking, if you know what I mean) everywhere I go.

Brands have never appealed to me. While I may be loyal to certain detergent brands, I do not pay attention when it comes to apparels. If something fits, it can be Gucci, Pucci, Mucci ... I don't care. The only thing I cannot tolerate is, imitation or fake goods. I would much rather wear a pair of original Asadi slippers as opposed to fake Adidas sneakers.

The best slippers on earth, in my opinion. My cousin says there should be a pair of these in every house.

For all these reasons, I have decided that perhaps I do not want to be a princess, after all. There is too much at stake and too much for me to change. It is much better to remain as a commoner. So what if the Devil wears Prada? Even if I had married a Prince, I would have been the Princess who still wears BATA.