My mom and I were halfway up the steep as hill that cuts through the woods towards our house. We were after-dinner walking off our carrot salads and bison burgers. I’m not even sure.
I was huffing from the steep and she was trotting along in her cute new haircut and old london t shirt. Our conversation had skipped lightly from jesus’s concern for my marital future to my student loans to salad dressing. Then she said: Let me ask you this – do you feel like Cinderella?
No, do you feel pretty?
I paused to tug my shirt down over my boob sweat and regained my step. The hill was hard enough without my Mom asking me whether or not I find myself attractive.
She corrected herself. Do you relate to her? Do you relate to any part of the story?
Oh, I said. This made more sense. I hmm’ed and conjured up this image:
I think she’s awesome, I theorized to my shoes to my Mother, because like – she finally got what she deserved, and because she had been wanting it for so long – she actually appreciated it.
Jodie smiled. I just read somewhere that every girl relates to Cinderella in some way.
Like me? I wouldn’t have minded the cleaning.