By Jamie Miles
Columnist
                       
There in the shadows of Cinderella’s castle standing in line to ride Dumbo with my young children, minutes from turning dead center of my 40th decade, it hit me. A defining moment in life when suddenly everything rapidly clicked into place with the exactness of a crisply shuffled deck of playing cards; yes, I had it all wrong all these years.

Growing up 30 minutes away from the Mouse House, I often spent birthdays there as a child, so why not celebrate the same with my favorite seven-year-old and four-year-old? But I forgot the searing humidity, crowds, money spent and cranky people (probably very neighborly sorts 364 days of the year, who turn borderline wicked under confluence of the earlier referenced conditions). Yes, the years glossed over some of the realities of birthdays in Fantasyland, but time did not erase the notion that to a little girl, princesses -- storybook princesses -- are the loveliest creatures on the planet.

Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty. Exquisite songbirds and seamstresses extraordinaire, living humble lives of servitude only to discover that once their destinies intersected with the man of their dreams; they were royalty! As a teenager watching Princess Diana in her wedding profusion of pearls, lace and taffeta, I cried. Incredibly forgetful (at times), overweight (at times), spilling things at social soirees (lots), and terribly messy (bull’s-eye), I never could be a princess. Yet throughout my adult life, I pressed on in my awkward, disorganized, need-to-lose-ten-pounds state always trying to fit into a size two fairy tale.

So all these years later standing in line with my hot, tired children, I saw him.

Striding out of the shadows of the most recognized princess-inspired, spired landmark in the universe (well, other than the Tai Mahal) was my animated, clumsy, scattered soul mate. What do you know? After all these years of trying to wear 36-24-36, I was really 24-36-24. Two 24-inch dog ears and a 36-inch wide grin. I’m Goofy!

Relaying this revelation to my husband, he deadpanned. “Of course, you’re Goofy. Why else do you think I fell madly for you? I have this thing for goofy brunettes.” Well, I used to be a brunette and he does have the silliest side. Now, I chose not to remind him of his teensy crush on the very brunette, very non-goofy Elizabeth Hurley in the '90s. But honesty, who didn’t have one?

My husband perceived my true goofiness and that’s why he’s crazy for me. Good grief! And I’ve fretted about this princess stuff most of my life. You know, I must be the first Goofy in history who married Prince Charming. Not even Elizabeth Hurley (even Elizabeth Hurley in the '90s) can say that.