I watched the movie at least once a week. Despite having to hide behind my couch in terror every time the wolves attacked, I soldiered bravely on. It was worth it to see the ballroom scene, to be able to imagine myself in that sweeping yellow dress, dancing with my one true love. I dreamed, not at all ironically, that someday my life would be filled with friendly, inanimate objects that just wanted to serenade me and serve me food.
Yet as time passed, I stopped expecting candelabras to speak in French accents. I became capable of watching the movie all the way through without overwhelming fear. Disney's rosy vision of romance was replaced in my mind by a slightly more cynical view. I even took a freshman seminar on fairy tales and learned the more unsettling side of the story: the undertones of bestiality, the comparisons of the heroine's change of heart to Stockholm syndrome.
It's not that I don't want to be Belle anymore. It just seems a lot more difficult now.