Growing up, I knew that just about the worst possible career choice would be princess.

Beautiful princesses were always getting kidnapped by dragons or poisoned by wicked stepmothers, hopelessly lost in the woods or having their castle stolen.

The only career choice worse than princess would be a farm kid named Timmy with a collie named Lassie. On the TV show “Lassie,” Timmy was always falling down wells, getting lost in caves, being trapped under falling lumber and other such predicaments.

Lassie forever was stuck rescuing Timmy or having to scamper off to find the adults and then try to make them understand, through a series of barks that sounded exactly the same, that the idiot boy was in trouble again.

I bet if the adults had a dog translator device, they would have discovered that Lassie was saying, “The doofus fell down the well again. Let’s leave him there until after supper, or possibly overnight. He’s never going to learn to watch his step if we keep coddling the hapless idjit.”

I knew that farm dog also would make a rotten career choice. I didn’t care neither for running nor barking as much as Lassie had to do.

I did consider handsome prince. Handsome princes were always riding on white stallions, swinging big swords, slaying dragons and rescuing princesses and stuff.

But as a 7-year-old boy, I couldn’t think of anything more disgusting than having to put up with some girl slobbering kisses all over me. All the other handsome princes would tease me like something awful:

“Handsome Prince Burtie and the Beautiful Princess / sittin’ in a tree / k-i-s-s-i-n-g…” I couldn’t stand it.

Plus, where would I keep the collection of princesses I rescued? All of whom wanted to kiss me?

“Make room in the well, Timmy. I’m hiding out with you. I sure hope that crazy dog of yours doesn’t lead any Beautiful Princesses to us.”

My first wife also grew up on those movies. She wanted nothing more than for me to swoop in on a white horse and rescue her. The trouble was, the world was in a transitional phase by then.

Princesses not only rescued themselves, but they likely had to run off and save the Inept but Handsome Prince as well.

Another way the world had changed was that now kisses from Beautiful Princesses had become delightful. But every time I tried to swoop in to rescue my wife from some situation or other, and collect my kisses, she’d hold up her hand and shout, “But not this time. I can do this myself.”

My Beautiful Princess didn’t trust her life and livelihood to Handsome but Inept Princes — such as, ahem, myself.

I don’t think she trusted Lassie, either. By that time, Timmy and I needed to find a bigger well, because Lassie hid out with us.

These days, instead of slaying dragons, the beautiful princesses ride them and put fear into the fearless knights. They also are excellent markswomen with bows, swing mean swords and pack powerful punches.

There’s not a lot of work left for us Handsome Princes — which is why these days instead of slaying dragons (“Don’t you dare lay a broadsword on my precious Buttercup the Bold,” the Beautiful Princess snarls at us), all we have left to do is to lie around on couches and watch the basketball playoffs while conquering giant bags of sour cream and onion potato chips.

If a Beautiful Princess should happen to want to swoop in and cover us with kisses, that would be fine — as long as she waited until halftime. She can rescue us from that.

Burt is hiding in the well with Timmy and Lassie at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.