princess

"We think it was J.," S. and N. said, of their cousin's new girlfriend, the person who they suspect brought the breast tape to their grandparents' white elephant gift exchange.

"It was her first Christmas with your family, wasn't it?" I said. "It took some ovaries to bring that to her boyfriend's grandparents' Christmas party."

"See?" S.'s boyfriend F. said. "This is why I want to call you Princess. You just totally flipped that gendered phrase on its head. That was awesome. That's something a princess would do."

"Fine," I said. "That is an ok reason."

(True confessions: I've read the ovaries thing on a feminist blog somewhere. Or something like it, anyway. I think.)

I bundled myself in more layers than one would think possible for the walk down to the beach, and F. said, "Always being cold is another princess trait."

"No," I said. "A princess would wear something cute, regardless of the cold. Or stay inside. Not an ok reason to call me Princess."

Near the perfect little square fire that N. built a dozen feet away from the highest surf, I laid on my back, head on the sand, to look at the stars.

"I bet you were one of those kids who was always filthy from head to toe," N. said from what looked, at that angle, like miles above me.

"I was," I said comfortably. "My brother and I once stripped to our underwear and covered ourselves in mud from head to toe. My mom didn't even get upset. She thought it was cute, and took a picture."

(Side note: always being filthy is not a princessy trait.)

I watched a star shoot across the sky. "Do you get one wish per shooting star?" I asked. "I mean, each time you see one, do you get a different wish?"

"I would assume so," S. said.

"There's another one," I said, and later, quietly, "Three."

I wish for the same thing on every star.