I remember giggling as I curled up to watch a Disney movie on a Friday or Saturday night with a large bowl of warm popcorn and a glass of ice-cold coke.  I might have been alone or there may have been friends involved, but either way I was about to enter the land of make-believe with the Disney Imagineers at the wheel.  I was eight. 

I think I cried on my eighteenth birthday when I realized that the land of Disney princesses would never be reality and that the real world, full of taxes and fender-benders, was waiting for me.  And it wasn't going away.  I held onto my childhood as hard as I could.

I watched it slip away in college when my professors educated me on the futility of oil and the eventual destruction of the earth by man.  I watched my innocence evaporate with organic chemistry and my first research internship.  The days of two-dimensional princesses and white horses was over. 

Then came adulthood.  It took me a while to get here and, frankly, I'm not entirely sure I've grown up yet.  I watch Disney movies with an analytical eye, dissecting the mother figures (or lack there of) and watching how, over time, the princesses have become more active in their role as a protagonist. 

I'm no princess.  I've always identified more with the active protagonist than the passive damsel in distress.  But that doesn't mean I don't like a good movie that guarantees me a happy ending. 

Instead of warm microwave popcorn and cold coke, I cuddle up with a glass of pinot noir and a few slices of my favorite cheddar.  The young girl in me creeps up and giggles at the thought of my adult indulgence.  Instead of grieving my lost childhood, however, that little girl relishes the idea that I have control over my retreats.  My Disney movies have long since retired and have been replaced by romantic comedies and heartfelt dramas. 

My inner protagonist is finally taking shape.