Surely they have died and gone to heaven. Like little girls they squeak and race to find the prettiest dress in the warehouse. Frills, lace, beads, jewels, gems, sequins, pearls, ruffles. Dresses that poof and dresses that hug your waist and dresses that hang like a pillow case. Short-cut, floor-length, above the knees, all in-between. Cinderella and Belle and The Little Mermaid. Princess-locked-in-a-tower-saved-by-a-prince. Medieval, colonial, modern, prehistoric. They've got it all. Pulling dresses off the racks, they rush behind the curtains to change.
I'm not interested in prom queen or America's Next Top Model. I can wear that any day. I select a blue. Pale blue like Alice in Wonderland. But when I slip on the petticoat it is definitely Cinderella. With a curtsy and a bippity-boppity-boo, the costume attendants turn into mice and surely the car outside is a pumpkin and all I need are glass slippers and a prince to waltz with and I, too, will live happily ever after. Swoosh. Swish. Swoosh. All I can do is swoosh, and when I spin and twirl and swirl my skirt is like a carousel fan and when I sit it poofs up to my nose and all I want to do is prance through the aisles bopping people with my magic wand and make snow angels in a field of daisies because I feel pretty, oh so pretty. Pretty in a petticoat and I never, never want to take it off because I am a princess and I am four-years-old again, slipping on long white gloves and wobbling on plastic heels. Putting on talent shows and dance recitals for my parents, forcing my little brother to dress up and dance with me. I am four-years-old again and innocent and the world is at my fingertips for I can be anything, do anything, go anywhere and nothing matters except this pretty pretty dress. No matter how big our feet may grow, they are never too big for a glass slipper.
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