Someday Our Prince Will Come...

It all started the first time I saw Cinderella. Sitting in the dark, vast theatre, downing my huge tub of popcorn so fast butter trickled down my chin, I suddenly knew. As her ridiculous stepsisters tried to squeeze their toes into her tiny little glass slipper, as I secretly hated them for being so unattractive (and would learn to hate myself a little bit later for the same reason), I got it. It is oh-so-much better to be tiny. If you’re tiny, you’re nice. Life may not be perfect for you now, but trust me. If the movies have anything to say about it, it will be. If you’re too tall, you could very well be a yeller. Or - gasp! - taller than a man. If you’re chubby - you may well be nice enough, but who can trust you with the food? But if you’re tiny…okay, maybe you’ll have to do all of the chores while the ugly girls get to lie around, but the birds will sing with you because you’re beautiful, and someone will supply you with a pretty blue headband. Then you’ll get an awesome dress made by clever handy rodents - and a new, even better one when that gets ruined. Plus you’ll get great footwear, a ride in a scooped out Pumpkin with great back lighting - and you’ll feel a little safe in the knowledge that some day your Prince WILL come. Because beauty = happy. And just a smidge more entitled. So it’s all good.
I remember taking careful stock of my ten year old little body at the time. My feet were long and slightly dirty from playing in the mud, as were my fingernails. My thighs and calves plump. I was even well on my way to the ‘breeders’ hips my Nana had warned me about. No doubt about it - I was going to be a big, sturdy girl. This just would not do. I so badly wanted to be delicate and treasured. I wanted to need to wear big sweaters because there wasn’t enough flesh on my body to keep me warm. I wanted what Cinderella had - except for the singing with the birds part. I am (somewhat famously) terrified of birds - although the deer and other livestock had seemed pretty fond of her too. That would be cool.
The thing of it was, inside I felt like a Cinderella type. I was forever singing away, always really nice - or at least 50% of the time. My mother could be a slave driver just like the infamous Lady Tremaine - is it sad that I remember her name? - she was forever asking me to clean my room and make my bed. But it wasn’t going to matter, not in the long run. When I was alone I felt lit up with the same happiness that had made Cinderella so lovely, but then I would be around people who told me “You would be so pretty if you would just…” or “Why not try the new yogurt diet? You could look nice by summer!”. I wasn’t delicate, I was sporty.
Then sporty turned into pleasantly plump, pleasantly plump into voluptuous. Voluptuous into “Whatever, I give up. Pass the cheesecake and elastic waist pants”. No one is frantically chasing me down with a glass slipper. Please, I can barely even get service when I’m clothes shopping (other than when someone nastily hisses “I don’t think we carry your size here.”). And I’m telling you, if Prince Charming even accidentally darkened my doorstep I would be just like the Stepsisters Tremaine, trying to squeeze my size 9 (fine - 10!) foot into her size whatever slipper. Could you blame me? He’s Prince Freaking Charming! And could you blame them? I mean, I know they should know better than to expect the love of a good man what with their bad hair and poor fashion choices. But maybe they just wanted to be treasured, by both men and tame wildlife. Maybe I still do too. I’m getting there - I think my dog really loves me.