When a British royal marries, the public is included in the ceremony, invited to line the path to Buckingham Palace or tune into a live broadcast staffed with journalistic interlocutors. If the American people are to witness any part of this, it will likely be because Swift and Kelce have packaged and monetized it, whether through music, film, podcasts, merch or concert experiences.

And that would be appropriate, as our pseudo-royals are selected not by their birth but by their receipts. Theirs are highborn, and ours are self-made, with an emphasis on the self. As the monarchy returns always to tradition and regalia, Swift has managed to construct a lore that refers back only to herself. Even banal idiosyncrasies — her lucky number is 13 — have penetrated the culture, though they have no meaning outside of the context of her. Her American dream is on instant replay, whether she is rerecording her masters in a note-by-note self-impersonation or staging the record-breaking “Eras Tour” that re-enacted her life and career night after night.

The more personal she gets, the more immersive the celebrity experience feels. Which is not to say that she is universally adored. At a time of great polarization, she has become an avatar for debates over gender and race, person and product, love and money. She has the power to instill pride or shame, ecstasy or frustration. She’s our fantasy representative, like her or not. Our everygirl.

Swift’s music has long imagined herself among royalty and nobility. She sings of crowns, trophies, jewels, thrones, palaces, damsels, swords, gates, horses, castles and kingdoms. She pins them to her vision board alongside images of feverish Americana: high school, blue jeans, baseball caps, Range Rovers and vending machines.