Once upon a time, the news that Prince William is getting married would have broken my heart.

Because he was supposed to marry me.

When I caught a glimpse of him in the newspaper, it was love at first sight between me and the handsome future King of England who was just my age. Or it would be, once he saw me–by which time he’d already be well on his way to falling deeply in love with me, thanks to the beautiful letter of sympathy I’d written to him upon the occasion of his mother’s tragic death.

It would have to be a real humdinger, as no doubt William had servants who read his post first to weed out the girls who were only after his power, riches, and masculine beauty from the one who truly loved him. If there is ever anything I can do… I wrote, convinced that the letter-reader’s response would be, Oh yes, Miss Bond, there is something you can do—heal His Royal Highness’ heart. Because nothing bespeaks true love like the phrase, Until that time, know that you are in my prayers whenever I think of you. Even the Apostle whose words I’d hijacked couldn’t have prayed as much for his fledgling churches as I was praying for William, because the first century had a distinct lack of 24-hour news coverage about celebrities dying to keep people frequently in his thoughts.

Also, Paul wasn’t a fifteen year-old girl.

He especially wasn’t a fifteen year-old girl who got caught by her father smuggling Diana-related newspapers back to her room and, flushing furiously, told him she was saving them because they were “history in the making”–as was getting up at three in the morning on a Saturday to watch Princess Diana’s funeral–like he didn’t know the truth, like every other father of a teenage daughter in 1997.

My letter never made it to Prince William—or his servant who read letters—it never even got finished–so I thankfully am spared the humiliation of having attempted to woo royalty with godliness. I only have to live with the humiliation of having played that card in my love games with regular boys at school and in youth group—about as successfully, I might add, as I would have been with His Royal Highness. The first boy who did take an interest, two years later, informed me that what actually drew me to him was not my prayers, but my pants—the blue plaid ones. And we all know what that’s teenage boy code for.

Not surprisingly, that relationship was no more destined to be than the one I had dreamed of with Prince William. For a big dose of irony, my first boyfriend played a prince in our high school production of Into the Woods—and used his charm both on-stage and off, with more girls than just me.

Princes were seriously over-rated, I decided, much as Sondheim’s Cinderella did. You have to work too hard to get–and keep–them.

Mr. Burt came into my life without the stench of prince anywhere near him. Well–he had played one of the Three Kings in a church play, but Binky the Wise Man bearing gifts of ties, toasters, and soaps-on-a-rope is a far cry from crowns and glass slippers and senior proms and angsty teenage romances. I never played any games with Mr. Burt; the first night we met I hadn’t washed my hair or put on makeup, and I spit popcorn on him. He wasn’t looking for me to impress him–though I did when I worked out the meaning of the word defenestration by using my (extremely limited) German vocabulary–and when I scored a date simply by being myself, I knew my search for Prince Charming was over.

Though that doesn’t mean I won’t get up at three in the morning to watch the royal wedding. After all, it’s history in the making.