Cinderella Syndrome

Here’s the thing about Cinderella:

She’s up to her elbows in soap suds every day of her adult life. She has no feasible way out of the demeaning tasks imposed upon her by her imposter of a step-mother and impish step-sisters. Cinderella knows that people are mean, that work is endless, that life is unfair. She goes to bed numb and tired and with every right to be bitter.

But she isn’t, or so the story goes, because she is a dreamer. She dreams of a castle and a tall prince and a white wedding, and she is ok. She can get up to scrub the floor and do the laundry because some irrational part of her is convinced that it’s not going to be like this forever. The circle breaks somewhere.

And then it does.

Does she know that it was going to happen all along? Is that why she dreams?

Or is she simply one of thousands of mistreated scullery maids, special only because she gets what she wants? For every Cinderella, are there countless people who never catch a break?

Destiny or chance?

Maybe choice?

I hope she likes the frickin castle. Not everybody gets one.

Journal Entry (From Sometime During Finals Week)

             "This choice is in your hands.
                              Half a heart never knew anything.
                I want something to break, I want the swell to break. I want
                it all to spill right over.

I want freedom from everything in my life."

He is faithful. He gives us what we ask for. Mostly more.

Stars

I am hanging my laundry (freshly brought it up to my room after it sat for 24 hours in dryer D) And almost unmistakably – “Go to her room. Now.”

I sigh. I’m never sure if that almost unmistakable voice is something Divine or something I cleverly disguise as such.

But. But… I’m folding and hanging, I tell the voice. Yeah, I don’t have time. I’m folding. And then I am in the hallway, walking to her room. Maybe she needs me. She needs encouragement. Yeah, it’s a mission from God. I’m like the Blues Brothers.

I knock on the door.

“Come in!”

I do. She’s not even there. It’s her roommate and another girl that I don’t know very well. It’s a little awkward. We hate on homework a bit.

And then, a frenzy of words from them: “Oh, we have to show her!” “Oh, yeah, I’ll get the lights!”

I am confused. Am I getting kidnapped? Suddenly, the room is dark. Except for the glow and the dark stars sticky-tacked to the wall. It’s glorious. We go crazy.

YAY STARS LOOK AT THEM THEY’RE SO TINY OH I LOVE THEM IT’S LIKE A BUNCH OF BABY CONSTELLATIONS IN YOUR ROOM YOU SHOULD GET MORE OF THEM YAY.

And then the lights are back on. The magic is over. We chat a little more, and I take my leave.

And almost unmistakably, “I wanted to give you a gift.”

Oh.

I guess it was God that time.

I am Ungit.