(Juliet’s Nurse Would Like the Record Corrected)
Now before we begin, I’d like to clarify somethin’.
I was not the problem.
I was, in fact, the only person in this entire affair makin’ any sense.
History has chosen to overlook this.
The Child
First of all, Juliet was thirteen.
Thirteen.
I don’t know how many different ways I can say “thirteen,” but apparently I need more.
Because every time somebody tells this story, they speak of star-crossed lovers, eternal devotion, and tragic destiny.
And I sit there thinkin’:
“That child still needed remindin’ to eat breakfast.”
My Qualifications
Now I’d raised her.
Fed her.
Bathed her.
Carried her when she was small.
Comforted her when she cried.
I knew every freckle, every stubborn streak, and every dramatic tendency she possessed.
Which was unfortunate.
Because she possessed several.
The Boy
Then came Romeo.
Now let me be fair.
He was handsome.
Polite enough.
Good manners when circumstances allowed.
The problem wasn’t Romeo.
The problem was Romeo’s schedule.
A Matter of Timing
As best I can determine, the sequence went somethin’ like this:
Monday:
Romeo deeply in love with Rosaline.
Tuesday:
Romeo meets Juliet.
Wednesday:
Romeo deeply in love with Juliet.
Thursday:
Marriage.
Friday:
Several fatalities.
You tell me if that sounds sustainable.
The Balcony Incident
Now everybody loves the balcony scene.
Poetry.
Moonlight.
Declarations of affection.
Lovely.
Very romantic.
Do you know what I was doin’?
Tryin’ to sleep.
Unauthorized Courtship
The amount of sneakin’ involved in this relationship was extraordinary.
Messages.
Meetin’s.
Plans.
Counterplans.
At one point, I felt less like a nurse and more like a courier service.
Every time I turned around, somebody was handin’ me another secret.
The Wedding
Now I assisted.
I’ll admit it.
Not because I thought the plan was wise.
Because I thought young people in love were marginally safer married than unmarried.
That was my entire strategy.
Reduce potential catastrophe.
You’d be amazed how often that’s the best available option.
The Escalation
Then people started dyin’.
Now whenever multiple deaths occur within forty-eight hours of a courtship…
I feel comfortable sayin’ the relationship has entered a problematic phase.
Yet somehow everybody continued actin’ surprised.
The Potion
When the sleeping potion appeared, I distinctly remember thinkin’:
“This feels like a plan designed by people who have never managed consequences.”
Unfortunately, I was correct.
The Adults
Now I’d like to address the grown-ups.
The Capulets.
The Montagues.
The whole lot of them.
For years, they conducted a feud so old nobody could properly explain it.
Then they acted astonished when the children inherited the confusion.
That ain’t parentin’.
That’s gardenin’ weeds.
The Tragedy
And then it happened.
The endin’ everybody knows.
The endin’ everybody quotes.
The endin’ that launched countless school essays and entirely too many greeting cards.
And all I could think was:
“Well, there it is.”
Not because I wanted it.
Because I could see it comin’ from three counties away.
On Being Ignored
You know what’s truly remarkable?
After all these years, folks still tell the story exactly the same way.
They praise the romance.
Admire the devotion.
Celebrate the passion.
And completely ignore the woman in the background sayin’:
“Maybe let’s slow down a minute.”
Closing Observation
So, if there is a lesson in all this, it is not that love is foolish.
Love is wonderful.
The lesson is this:
When every adult in the room says,
“Maybe we oughta think about this for a few days,”
and every teenager replies,
“We’ve already decided.”
It may be wise to locate a comfortable chair and prepare for developments.
And that, as near as I can tell it, is how I spent one solid week tryin’ to prevent a tragedy…
while everybody else was busy writin’ poetry.
olbigjim 