“Life isn't fair, it's just fairer than death, that's all.”

So, a funny thing happened the other day when the internet IMPLODED. 

No…no.  Not the Benghazi exposure. 

No…no.  Not the IRS scandal. 

No…no.  Not even Angelina’s pro-active mastectomy. 

It was, of course, the revelation of Disney’s overt feminization and blatant sexualization of their most recent princess, Merida, the Scottish spitfire from Brave... DUH. 

You must remember her, right?  The one that caused all the hysteria because she made the conscientious decision to remain unfazed by the wealth of suitors at her disposal and chose to remain single?  This was unnatural, “they” spat.  This meant she was gay, “they” decried.   This was not His plan, “they” disparaged.  (And by “His” I can only assume they meant Uncle Walt?)  This broke the Disney-code, “they” complained.

Only in America, folks, would any of this be headline news.  But, I digress.

Man-hating Merida is back in the headlines for her big makeover—one that has swept the mainstream media and a myriad of mommy-bloggers itching for something to say (present company… *ahem* …excluded, of course) into a frenzy of heated opinions and half-baked hyperbole.

Quite honestly, for me, it was one of those moments where I took a look, experienced a flicker of annoyance at some ancient, arcane notion of what a girl could-or-should be…and I moved on. 

Moved on, that is, until I ran the story past my favorite male friend, hoping for a spot of co-parent-righteous-communal-anger at the never-ending subjugation of our daughters by a multi-billion dollar toy and entertainment industry.  Or, you know, so we could bitch about it and smugly pat one another on the back for our sublime sensitivity to the plight of the pre-adolescent American female.

His reply, however, knocked me off my suburban mom soapbox:

“Don’t hate me," he reluctantly replied, "but her dress is lighter.  The end.  What else is different?  I don’t get the fuss.”

Damn it.  I thought this was going to be an easy one. 

I rather callously told him that—despite his proclivity for musical theatre—this was unequivocal proof of his fully intact heterosexuality.  (I’m pretty sure as a married father with two beautiful children, he and his wife are probably okay with my denunciation, though.)

For those blind to the animated transgressions being committed by the Big D™ here, I’ve composed a brief list of the primary changes that I (humbly submit) are glaringly obvious, at least, to any card-carrying member of the uterine union:

1)      Merida’s original measurements—approximately 32-28-36.  Merida’s updated measurements—approximately 34-26-36.  When the boobs go up and the waist goes down, you know it’s a man’s world.

2)      Merida’s face and expression before: quirky, fresh-scrubbed, wide-eyed teenager with the world at the tip of her bow and arrow.  Merida’s face and expression after: twenty minutes of “smoky” cat-eyed shadow/ blush/ lipliner/ and lipstick application upon a face that says “Yeah, I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom.  You mad, bitches?”

3)      Merida’s hair.  Come ON.  Before: Unruly, untamed authentic ginger.  After: Two shade rinses and a highlight at Mario Tricoci and at least $2K in extensions for “fullness” and “body”—a.k.a. stripper hair.

4)      Merida’s dress.  Before: honest (spelled h-o-m-e-l-y), earth-mother, utilitarian fashion—perfect for bareback horse riding through misty glens and winning her own hand in marriage.  After: impractical sparkly, gilded fashion monstrosity surely crafted from an exploitive, third-world sweatshop by malnourished, elfin orphans.

5)      Finally—weapon of choice.  Before: Merida’s trusty bow and arrow… and even sharper wit.  After: WHAT’S THIS?  No weapon?  Oh, she’s got a weapon all right…her hands are firmly planted on either side of it.  And you just KNOW that “New”-Merida ain’t wearin’ no chastity belt under there.

Bottom line? 

Before the overhaul, Merida looked a little like my precious ten-year old daughter.  Now she looks way too much like my foxy next-door-neighbor (whom, incidentally, my husband spends a wee bit too long checking out when he’s mowing the yard.  The mother-fucker actually FLEXES the entire time he landscapes!!!  Can you IMAGINE the energy that wastes???) 

I suppose we have no one to blame but ourselves—after all, my husband and I were the ones who chose to sacrifice our children’s college tuition to visit the house of mouse, thereby leaving us completely culpable for the transformation of our precious daughters who had, up to that point, been more interested in Spongebob Squarepants, the Museum of Science and Industry, and all things art-and-craft, into drooling, blabbering little moppets the moment they were within spitting distance of the princess du jour.

*sigh* 

Look.  I’m not trying to get into it with you Disney-acs.  You know who you are and your tribe is strong.  I respect that.  More power (and less cash) to you. 

I suppose I just thought I was raising little Jean Louise Finches—but they became tiara toddlers right before my very eyes.  We will, of course, love our daughters for whoever and whatever they become; I just wish Disney would stop dicking around with what my vulnerable and incredibly impressionable daughters think and feel.   

You see, Merida was all right already, too. 

While I liked the direction that Tangled took us in, it was Brave that sent the message I so wanted my precious progeny to receive.  Merida restored the natural balance of Lego tea parties with Woody and Buzz and Pinkie Pie and Strawberry Shortcake and Dora the Explorer and the gang.  She was one of us—the real people—and we loved her for it. 

 

I’m just left to wonder: Why wasn’t that okay?  Why wasn't Merida enough...just the way she was?