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? 

To which I replied – uh – I don’t know – that could mean a variant amount of things. Do you mean, like do I feel like a  princess? 

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 thought about the blonded bitch for a minute, her mousey friends and their little outfits. The deserved stares she received upon entering the ball.

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.

Ah.

Like me? I wouldn’t have minded the cleaning.