Confessions of a Disney girl

I was Snow White dressed in the wrong colours. I was Cinderella with throw pillows under her skirt. I was the princess who sat atop the step-ladder throne. I was decked in plastic jewels with flaking silver paint. I held court perched upon a huge bean bag.

I was a Disney girl. A big time Disney girl.

I quoted dialogue from my favourite Disney cartoons. I'd hum So This Is Love as I clambered up the side of our garden swing - I never sat on the swing, I only climbed - and draped over the top bar until my mum yelled at me to get down.

Even as I ogled Transformers and GI Joe figurines at toy stores, I'd probably have a pink Barbie dress under one arm - I had more hope of getting girly toys from my parents than boy toys (little did they foresee the future...).

I wore lots of pink.

I wanted to be pretty, and be loved for being pretty. I wanted to wear the fluffy dresses and lipstick. But I'd never be pretty and princess-like. Which princess prefers climbing to preening? Which princess can't talk to mice, birds and other wildlife? Which princess prefers computer lessons to modelling lessons? Which princess slouches and sits with her legs open? Which princess gets bored at her prom when her friends want to do nothing but pose for pictures while she prefers to jive with the band? Which princess pays for every compliment with the pain that inevitably follows when a vulnerable, insecure girl can't tell the difference between angels and sharks? Which princess wonders why real mothers and evil stepmothers sometimes don't seem to feel all that different? Which princess feels unhappy, fat, trapped, and never good nor smart nor talented enough?

And then, one day, a man looked straight into my eyes and said, "Daph, you are a very, very attractive woman", and wasn't trying to get into my pants. I was 22.

That same month I got my first job, based purely on talent as I had no academic qualification that supported that line of work and only had an interview and a written test to prove myself.

Two years later I was an editor of a magazine. (I didn't have the appropriate pay increase, but hey, a promo is a promo).

Two years later I took a leap and did all the things that people told me were foolish and impossible to live on, and I've proved them all wrong.

And then, one day, I realised I was beautiful and talented.

The kind of princess that Disney has been veering towards in recent years has evolved - the ballsy, eccentric chicks who have the upper body strength to haul in a huge beast teetering on the edge of a balcony, battle crocodiles and (gasp) be non-Caucasian...but they are still pretty in gowns - Disney will never sell a plain Jane. Though I now own gowns and believe myself to be beautiful, I'm still no Cinderella (though I'm occasionally a Sleeping Beauty).

Today, an older and fatter me still thinks I'll never be a Disney princess, but that's OK because I'm fabulous nonetheless, and wiser to boot. Moreover, if I were perfect like a Disney princess, wouldn't I have nowhere to grow?

The beauty of not being good enough is knowing there's better to come. So yes, I'm not good enough. And that's an exciting thought.