Royal Wedding? Count me in!

Okay, time to come out of the closet.

Since relating these shallow reflections has become a far cheaper form of personal psychotherapy, here comes another bombshell at the expense of you, the unfortunate reader:

I'm into this royal wedding thing.

In fact, I love all of it; I'm wacky for the Windsors of Wales, dizzy over Queen Lizzy.

I'm Harried.

I blame my mom. She started me at an early age, watching PBS dramatic miniseries, such as The Six Wives of Henry VIII and Elizabeth R. Mom would recline in her Naugahyde easy chair while I stretched out on the avocado shag, the Motorola casting harmful RGB rays onto my nine-year-old, pre-pustuled face.

Together we viewed every show as Mom provided a running back story to all the Tudor tomfoolery—the intrigue, the poor personal hygiene, the divorce/beheadings and the reckless inbreeding which consolidated power into one family-ish throughout Europe.

It all came flooding back this week, as another generation of Brit royals, albeit far better looking than previous generations, prepared to litter London's streets with more horse cookies than we've seen since June of 1981. So much glitz, so much ceremony, these nuptials leave any other weddings about which I've expounded in the horse dust.

But when the rubber hits the road, how different is the story of William and Kate from any other couple who've fallen in love and decided to seal their collective futures in front of an adoring public?

Okay, it's a lot different, but play along.

May is the month when my wife and I will celebrate our twenty-second wedding anniversary. That day was fantastic, as I'm sure the young royal couple's was.

See? some common ground.

I've decided to investigate whether any further common ingredients existed between this week's supersized Royale with Cheese and the Happy Meal which took place in Enumclaw, Washington on May 27, 1989. You may be surprised:

Both brides were striking brunettes. One is now a permanent royal. The other had a royal permanent.

Each event had guests in attendance from Kent.

The grooms each enlisted their brothers' services as best men. And although I don't possess first-hand knowledge, I've heard Harry had just as much trouble finding a donkey for the bachelor party as my brother did.

William has been a prince since birth, but I've held the title of Auburn High School Grub Tolo Prince since spring of 1979. You realize that title is forever, right?

Naturally, in addition to my wedding's decided advantage in average family tooth count, many differences are also apparent:

1,600 invitees attended William and Kate's ceremony. Seventy-five showed up for ours. You know what, though? We totally could have found 1,600 people to come to our wedding, if we used that Kevin Bacon method. Plus, Costco wasn't around yet, and we weren't able to find a place to sell us that many Hot Pockets for the reception.

The royal wedding reception probably didn't have a deceptively pie-sized slab of brie, which sickened a few after confusing it for cheesecake.

Since the distance from the wedding at Westminster Abbey to the reception at Buckingham Palace is far less than twenty miles, the Prince and Princess likely didn't ask their carriage driver to pull into a Circle K for a cheap bottle of champagne for the ride.

The security bill for the British government was twenty million dollars. We had no security, unless you counted a friend of mine who lettered twice in wrestling.

I really hope these two can withstand the onslaught that lies before them. They seem like nice kids, and, considering the checkered past of royal relationships, they've got their work cut out for them.

Especially Sunday dinner at Grandma's house.