My Woodcutter and I

The other night, my younger sister, my mom, and I somehow got on the topic of princes. They decided I need a prince to come sweep me off my feet. I have since decided I do not need nor do I want a prince. A prince would be too formal, too flashy, too ornate, and too busy; not nearly as comfortable as I would like to be. I want a woodcutter (Do not say lumberjack because a lumberjack and a woodcutter are two completely different things in my head. My fella doesn’t wear plaid and overalls, thanks very much.) I want someone quiet-like but goofy, slightly awkward like me, someone I can snuggle with and not have to worry about looking good enough or having others watch us. I want someone simple. Not simpleminded, but simple. I want a little wood house deep in the forest where me and my woodcutter can live. He can chop wood during the day and I’ll keep a garden and clean the house, go draw water from the creek that will naturally be by our house (because wells just haven’t been the same for me since that movie The Ring came out) and make some sort of lovely stew. We can plant flowers and listen to the rain falling quietly, just the two of us in our little wood house. We can curl up next to a lovely fire and just talk, about how lovely the sky was that morning and how brightly the stars are shining or how low the moon hangs through the trees. And all the while it will just be me and him, him and me, my woodcutter and I. We will be separated from the rest of the world, but we will be together, for that is all I really need and all I have ever wanted. And if he wants to, he can wear plaid.

Either that or I want one of those elves that lives in the tree and makes fudge cookies. Keebler elves? Either one will do.