Tinkerbell Syndrome

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I remember when I first saw her.  I was nine years old.  She had straw-colored hair, the tiniest waist, and the ability to fly.  She was instantly my ideal.  I figured, I would never have the ability to fly, I may be able to cinch in the waist a bit, but I definitely could secure the blonde hair. Twenty years later, I have unwittingly mastered the art of mimicking my ideal woman, Tinkerbell.

She was sweet (when happy), tempestuous (when provoked) and overall completed devoted to a boy who never wants to grow up.  It was only until recently that I found this last quality disturbing.  But as a girl growing up in a society filled with attention-driven (think desperate reality show participants) individuals; i thought Tinkerbell was a great role model. She got away with pouting, she got boys to fight for her, and she was loyal.  True, the loyalty was never fully reciprocated (f*#%ing Wendy), she still managed to charm anyone who gazed upon her impish smile.

She had beauty, which equated to power; skill which was enhanced by magic and an overall clever resourcefulness.  Simply put, Tinkerbell could kick anyone's ass but ultimately she was always the victim of unrequited love.

So let me introduce the parallels of Miss Tinkerbell and myself. 1) We both have tempers.-  My silent treatment and ability to make loud noises with dishes are a true marvel.  2) We both take pride in our appearance, but rely on our skills to truly get us what we want. I own a multitude of cosmetics, but manage to mention my college degree before someone asks me what my plans are for dinner. 3) We both are fiercely loyal to those that quickly toss us aside. Even after my divorce, I will never let someone speak ill of the ex who so quickly moved in his Wendy to our once happy home.

So why is it that the independent females become entrapped with the fantasy that one day the boy will grow up?  Why is it that no matter how blonde, how tiny the waist, how high the IQ, the boy still chooses to play around and use up all the pixie dust for him and his pals?  It may take another twenty years to come to terms with the fact that immaturity is my worst enemy, not Wendy. 


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