When I was a little girl, I used to pretend I was Wonder Woman.
First of all, she wasn’t blonde. This was of supreme importance, because at that point in my life, your attractiveness seemed to hinge upon the amount of blonde on your head and its ability to properly feather.
Secondly, Wonder Woman had accessories. She had a magic lasso and bracelets and that tiara thing on her head, and she was sort of like a feminine version of Captain America. Plus, she was a princess. That came with its own set of finery.
Wonder Woman also had a KILLER theme song. You could just imagine the muses lining up to shout out the funky praises of a warrior goodness. I’m not going to lie: I used to sing it when I rode my bike around the neighborhood — and I had a Wonder Woman-y bike if ever there was one. It was called the Star Spangled Banner (seriously, it was on the banana seat) and had red, white and blue streamers on the handlebars.
Last, Wonder Woman was intelligent. She probably read books whenever she wasn’t being an Amazon Warrior or subjugating evil. Even in my first decade of life, I could see that she and I would have gotten along famously had she only known to stop down in Florida on her way to Amazon Island. I could have lent her some of my books. We’d have been buds.
I miss her. I’ve seen the newest incarnation of the television icon, and she doesn’t quite do it for me. Even after they re-designed her outfit, she just fell flat (not her breasts, however, which were perfectly perky and defied gravity… alas, I don’t have THOSE, either).
I wear a Wonder Woman nightshirt to bed at night. I like to think I get a lot accomplished in the dreams I have on those nights. It’s good to have a hero.