When I was little, we lived in Marin, a small town outside of San Francisco, California. Specifically, we lived in Kentfield, which is a town that even some of the people who live in Marin have never even heard of. Number 338, Kent Ave. was not a new house when we moved in. The stairs leading up to my brothers’ bedrooms were covered with the ugliest green carpet you could imagine. It was absolutely horrendous.

But then my mom decided to put her decorating talents to use, and we moved into our friends cabin while our house was remodeled. The cabin was so small that I had to share a room with my two brothers, and the youngest of the two eventually had to get his tonsils removed because he snored so loud.

The remodel seemed to take years, although in reality it didn’t take very long at all. I remember sitting on the front porch and talking to one of the workers. I ended up begging him to have the house down before my birthday.

And although the house wasn’t done in time for me to have my birthday party in it, it was eventually done. My favorite room quickly became the living room. It was in the very back of the house, with a door leading to the backyard. All the walls were painted white, except for one. It was hidden by a gigantic blue book-case, filled with novels, dictionaries, and my personal favorites: The picture books.

I used to sit on the blue arm chairs all the time, with one of two books in my lap. Perhaps it was because they were the only two books which weren’t filled with words and that I could actually reach (even while I stood on the counter), but they were my favorite.

One book was filled with different breeds of horses. They had the names printed in big letters on the left side of the page, and a picture, often hand-drawn, on the right. I would sit in front of the windows for hours, trying to memorize all of them. It’s every little girl’s dream to own a pony, and I was fortunate enough to have one. I took my duties very seriously.

But I loved the book filled with the pictures of Princess Diana’s wedding even more than the horse one. Having lived in London for two years, I was fascinated by it. I would slowly flip through the pages. Past the one of the royal couple taking their vows, past the carriages, all the way to Princess Diana and her husband waving from a balcony outside the palace. It fascinated me.

That book made me want to grow up as fast as I could. I wanted to put on a pretty white dress and walk down the aisle, towards someone whose face I couldn’t even begin to picture. I operated under the illusion that everyone got married in a giant chapel, and stepped into beautiful carriages after the ceremony, to be transported to a gigantic house.

I realize now of course how silly of a notion that was. But to this day, I am fascinated by it. We have moved several times since then, and I have lost track of the book. But I am reminded of it, as I was today, when standing in the check-out line of a super-market, with nothing else to do but stare at the multiple magazine covers. Which all have the same thing on them, by the way.

As I continue to grow up, my fantasies continue to shatter into tiny pieces. But it’s not as sad as it sounds. I still have my dreams, they’re just new ones. Ones that make sense, and are actually achievable. Yes, I still think back to the book with pictures of the pretty princess, but I no longer want to be her. I want to be my own person, and make my own way. I want to create my identity, not steal someone else’s. And it all starts with a silly little dream.