I pulled alongside a sport utility vehicle the other day, its pilot a woman with an expression as bleak and glazed as a day-old Krispy Kreme doughnut. Her threadbare coat — dotted with desiccated Cheerios — had clearly started life as a maternity parka. As she maneuvered into the turn lane, I read her bumper sticker:

“Treat Me Like The Princess I Am.”

I never understood the American fascination with royalty, but it must be about the bling. After all, most agree that one can never be too rich or too thin, even while we seem hell-bent on proving the opposite. And you can fall in love with a rich man as easily as a poor one, right? Too bad there are so few of the former. Princes are in even shorter supply.

Still, I’m guessing that Ms. SUV neither married into royalty, nor was she implying that her husband is a prince. If not a princess by ascension, then, perhaps a princess by birth. And yet I doubt that the king would condone his daughter’s decidedly unaristocratic behavior. More likely, the spit-up spattered woman I spied biting off a hangnail was the less-than-professional chauffeur of the princess in the car seat behind her.

Chauffeur or not, the driver was claiming the title, which made her a princess by personal fiat. Thus, she joined the sisterhood of the self-proclaimed Cutie Pies and Hot Stuffs. Surely, she knew we wouldn’t just take her word for it, making obeisance at stoplights and averting our eyes in the Dollar Tree. Too many claim nobility without documentation. The subjects demand proof! Surely, she keeps a royal decree in the glove box. Coat-of-arms in the trunk?

Princess No-Turn-Signal isn’t the only one asserting her royalty. Or divinity, like all the Angels. In this proud democracy, we start our monarchs young. We have princess bibs, princess onesies and the ubiquitous Disney Princesses, including, for some reason, Tinkerbell. Why? And why aren’t there more powder-blue accessories for our “little princes?” Would rhinestone baby “Prince” jeans be too “When the Doves Cry?”

I’m not so sure this obsession is benign. Why do we believe that only women with rich and famous daddies deserve admiration? Does this explain Paris Hilton? It can’t be the hair.

Yesterday, I browsed a new kids’ book series, “I want to be a … ” featuring titles like “Builder” and “Firefighter” and smiling boys with creepy fake stubble. I contemplated buying one for my niece, but was frustrated by the absence of female characters.

Then I found the “girls’ books” from the same publisher. There was “Ballerina,” which seemed reasonable — my aunt was a professional ballerina. Her son is actually a firefighter.

The other book? “Princess.” Way to go, Random House of Morons! What agency fills that position?

How is that even aspirational? I’d rather see my friend the SUV driver on the cover of “Mommy.” For the sake of our sanity and our self-respect, enough with the princesses, already! The Queen commands you.

Michelle Bowen-Ziecheck is a Weinberg junior. She can be reached at [email protected]