confessional

Ever since I last typed a post title, it's refused to leave me. The swing of "ponytail" has haunted every spare thought, a rhythmic reminder of bygone bitterness. I've resisted it for days, but I know this now: I must confess.

Liv, this is for you:

Years ago, we used to play My Little Pony: lovingly grooming rainbow manes with plastic brushes, puppeteering fantastic tales of brazen bravery. My horse was purple, the standard princess-fare. Her pink hair was strung through with sparkle, her left buttock stamped with a cheery bundle of balloons. She was your typical pony, all short and squat with the signature stumpy legs and over-large eyes. I pretended to love her.

Your plastic friend was green, a sort of sea-froth color that complimented her bubblegum pink hair. Long and leggy, she was everything but the status quo, right down to her almond-shaped eyes. She had an Audrey Hepburn neck and sleek muzzle; an innocent cluster of daisies marked her name. She smelled slightly of strawberries and I would have done anything to make her mine.

Yet month after month we played, you with yours and I with mine. They cavorted about emerald fields and sapphire streamlets, whinying for the highest good and stomping out the most despicable bad. My purple pony developed magical traits, certain tricks I loudly declared could never be yours. I refused your green girl a chance to fly. I ceased play the minute you suggested she might be in some small way superior to my chunky charge. In short, I despised you and your horse. But only because I so badly wanted to be a part of its single glory.

I tell you this now, in the hopes that this petty pony-hate be all forgotten and I can move on, undeterred by a simple mention of "ponytail" or any of its counterparts. Still, a part of me has found unnerving parallel in the writing: do you know, I envy you stil? You've always been the one to stand out, to exude "I am an individual" with real authority. Whether your fab fashion, instant comedy or your easy-going people skills, I stand in awe. How many times these past months I've only wished, "If only I could be like her . . ."

And yeah, sometimes it's your own long, lean legs and petite frame that drive me to these wishes. But physical supremacy aside, I wouldn't mind being given a part of that uniqueness that is you.

In other words, you're pretty cool. And no matter how many times I wished death to your plastic friend as dad seranaded our pony days with "My Little Phony," I'm glad we stuck it out. Together.