The big day is approaching, and Iâ€™m so thrilled for the royal couple that Iâ€™ve decided to offer them the ultimate wedding present: my sincerest and most respectful neglect.
Iâ€™ve been a journalist long enough to know that - well, letâ€™s just say that weâ€™re not the most popular profession out there. And God knows that Prince Harry has more reason than other people to despise us, which, by all accounts, he does, wholeheartedly. I wish I could dissociate myself completely from those bottom-feeding paparazzi who hounded his poor mother to her death, but Iâ€™m afraid that the general public doesnâ€™t usually make such distinctions. And really, why should we expect them to?
Meghan Markle seems like a lovely woman - but of course she, too, is now getting the 21st-century royal treatment, as the press descends on her unsuspecting family, who are obviously ill-equipped to deal with the maelstrom of public attention. (What normal American middle-class family wouldnâ€™t be?)
And look, I know the happy couple doesnâ€™t care one way or the other, so whatever I do is going to have an entirely symbolic impact. But itâ€™s the thought that counts, right?
So here we go. Meghan, Harry: I couldnâ€™t care less. There. Youâ€™re welcome.
We already live in the most media-drenched era in human history. Even schlubs can go from obscurity to trending news story in a matter of seconds. So just imagine what itâ€™s like to be a British royal (and royal-to-be).
The wedding of Charles and Diana in 1981 was the most-covered event of its day, but it will pale in comparison with this one. Weâ€™re about to experience megatons of Markle Sparkle. Meghan is the face that launched a billion tweets. (Actually, when all is said and done, â€śbillionâ€ť wonâ€™t even cover it.) Meghan and Harry have convinced me - thanks to what Iâ€™ve read in the papers and seen on TV - that theyâ€™re both fine, upright people, and that they deserve every happiness together. What more could I, as a low-ranking reporter, possibly add to that?
The last thing this couple needs is more exposure. What they really could use is a bit of judicious peace and quiet - benign neglect, if you will. So I would like to offer them the ultimate gift: This is the first and last time I will ever write about them. After that, the balm of silence. I shall abstain.
Iâ€™m sure thereâ€™s going to be a lot to be thrilled about: The carriage. The guests. The dress. The economic impact. I donâ€™t begrudge anyone any of it - least of all the little girls in southeast London who will watch Meghan at the altar and see someone who looks like them. God bless them all.
Iâ€™m sure it will be great fun for those who are into it. So let everyone else make their gigantic, global fuss. Let the blue-haired ladies from my home town in Texas crowd the barriers along the parade route. Let the artistophiles in Borneo and Bolivia swoon before their TV screens. Let the souvenir hunters stock up on the commemorative plates and the bobbleheads and the special editions.
I wonâ€™t be in the audience, physical or virtually. Iâ€™m going to spend Saturday morning hiking with my kids, and then Iâ€™m going to come home and fire up the grill. Maybe, if Iâ€™m feeling up to it, Iâ€™ll mow the lawn. And at some point, sitting out on the deck, I might even pick up the paper for a bit. If I do, Iâ€™ll be sure to stick to my vow and conscientiously skip over any coverage of the nuptials.
Itâ€™s the least I can do.
Christian Caryl is an editor with The Postâ€™s Opinions section.