Ye Olde Confessionne


Well hey, I’m Marissa!  Good to meet you.  I hope you know it is a brave thing we are doing here.  This is embarrassing stuff.  It would have been a lot easier just to introduce ourselves via cutesy facts and a list of our favorite hobbies.  Hell, we could have just done the proper Generation Y thing and sent you off to our Facebook pages to figure it all out yourself.

But we didn’t, readers.  We didn’t.  Instead we’re providing you with blackmail-worthy  dirt that you can tuck away in your pocket and allude to menacingly whenever you want to muscle us into some ridiculous favor.  All for the sake of entertainment.  Because we love you. Because we care.

…now that I’ve stalled that point into the ground, I bet you probably want to hear my confession now.  Yikes, well, here it is:

I adore Renaissance faires.

It’s true.  I love them!  Can’t get enough of them.  I’m into the costumes, the food, the kitschy performances, the whole deal.  The biggest incentive for some poor boy to take me on a date to a Renaissance faire is that I would bone him as soon as he put on a pair of tights and said “Huzzah.”  I’m that crazy about them.

It’s a condition I’ve grown up with; I was raised on worn library copies of Tamara Pierce novels, ardently cheering on her main characters and wishing with everything in my thirteen-year-old heart that I were them:  Girls disguising themselves as boys and becoming knights,  running away from their humble serfdoms to become royal spies, and discovering their  budding magical abilities just in time to fulfill ancient prophesies.  Plus there was always a hunky, rogueish man involved; how could a girl NOT get sucked in?

When I was fifteen I joined the Madrigals choir at my high school.  It took a vigorous audition process to make it- when I found out that I had, my every move was set to “Chariots of Fire” for a week.  I was ecstatic.  I told everyone I was so happy because it was flattering to have made it into the honors choir…but secretly, I was more excited about the fact that I got to wear a costume. And what a costume I had–and still have, tucked away lovingly beneath my bed–a gaudy purple silk number with a brocade cloak and green and gold embroidery that looks like it belongs on the Bayeaux Tapestrey.  I even painstakingly crafted my own flowered headpiece to finish it off.  I looked downright ridiculous in it- but damn if I wasn’t PROUD while I wore it.  During our concerts I could invariably be spotted with a huge smile on my face, imagining myself on the back of some white stallion ridden by some dashingly tan prince who belonged on the cover of a book that you’d find in the Romance section of Barnes & Noble.

I’m a total closet-case, of course.  I’ve only been to two or three faires in my life because I’m too embarrassed to ask anyone to go with me.  Two years ago, however, that did change, and I took one of my fellow Madrigals to a faire with me, garb and all.  And while I didn’t tell many of my friends about my excursion, I secretly relished every nerdy, gilded, mead-y minute of it.

I’m excited to announce that Mackenzie and I will be attending the Sarasota Medieval Fair next month.  Yes, I brought my costume from home.  Yes, I had to pay $30 more to check an extra bag on my flight home because that thing is so goddamn POOFY.

…yes, it was totally worth it.




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