We need to treat age like the weird uncle at a wedding—acknowledge it briefly, then move on to the dancing. Princess Astrid’s age might be a number like 71 or 65, but does that number explain why she’s still the first person to notice when a friend is feeling awkward at a party? No. It doesn’t explain how she can wear a tiara like it’s a baseball cap and still look elegant.
I once had a coworker who was 24 but had the soul of a grumpy 80-year-old. Another friend is 58 and still thinks she can do a cartwheel (she can’t, but the attempt is legendary). Numbers are liars. Astrid’s real age is measured in stories, not years.
Princess Astrid’s Ruby Aigrette Tiara | The Royal Watcher
The “Oops” Factor
Here’s a funny comparison: think of Princess Astrid as a well-loved, slightly dented casserole dish. You don’t look at the dish and ask, “How many times has this been in the oven?” You look at it and see the family meals, the burnt edges, and the way it still makes perfect mac and cheese every time. Her age? That’s just the warranty that expired long ago. The magic is in the recipe.
Another anecdote: my neighbor’s cat is 19. That’s ancient in cat years. But when I see that cat sunbathing on the porch, I don’t think “19 years old.” I think, “That cat has mastered the art of not caring about anything except warm spots and tuna.” Princess Astrid is probably that cat. At a certain age, you realize the only number that matters is the one on the scale when you step on it after a big lunch—and even that is negotiable.
I've Always Loved Astrid, But Live-Action How To Train Your Dragon Can
