In Praise of ... Glinda

I've really warmed up to this whole bloggy thing. And so I'm kicking off a salute (which I just made up) to the Great, Underestimated Fashionistas of Fiction. To begin, I'm giving a shout-out to my girl Glinda from The Wizard of Oz. Notice how serene and upbeat she is when she makes her grand entrance.



It's because she knows how to travel in style: descending in a private, personal, pink bubble. As she journeys, her admirers can worship her from afar — which is certainly how I prefer my devotees to behave. No need to get all uncomfortably up-close and personal. That leads to all kinds of clingy shenanigans, whiny cries for personal attention, baleful expressions, pouting and eventual banishment from my sight.

That bubble gives Glinda much-needed alone time to think, which is crucial since Oz is really just a hot mess in terms of government, infrastructure (You have to leave by hot air balloon? Really?), animal control, a likely heroin industry and don't get me started on the social unrest. Sometimes a sister needs to just tune everyone out. That's why I love my iPod. When my earbuds are securely in place, I can just glide through the streets of Manhattan listening to my theme song and blissfully removed from the rest of the world.

Just because a chick is pretty, positive and popular, does not mean she's a pushover. Glinda delivers a Mona Lisa smirk in the face of bullying. When the Wicked Witch of the West tries to intimidate her, the Good Witch responds, "Be gone, you have no power here." And she gets in a dig by gently implying that a house just might fall on the Wicked Witch of the West, too. Well-played, Glinda.

We can all learn from Glinda's brand of no-frills nurturing. Glinda is caring and supportive, but doesn't mollycoddle a friend in need: She pointed Dorothy in the right direction, then basically let her sort things out for herself. Dorothy, a sweet girl, strikes me as the type who might need excessive hand-holding and reassurances; Glinda set boundaries, assuring that she wouldn't be pestered with a lot of weepy, soul-searching three a.m. phone calls.

Glinda saves her frills for where they belong, on that snazzy gown, of course. Yards and yards of tulle and pink and glitz and glam. That Glinda is not afraid of her femininity, she revels in it — unlike a certain green sourpuss I could name. And at the end of the day, who comes out on top: the gloomy, Bitterella with no sense of fashion or home design, sneering at everyone and surrounded by sycophants or Glinda, who isn't afraid to play dress up, graciously accept mass adoration, and carry a big, ol' Bedazzled magic wand?

Glinda, I hereby declare you, a Great Underestimated Fashionista of Fiction.

The Tipping Point: In honor of Glinda and her pink bubble, I encourage everyone to sink into a luxurious bubble bath. I like the Bath Bombs by Pretty Girl Makeup, and one of The Pigeon Sisters gifted me with the Happy Pill Bath Bomb by Lush Cosmetics. They both cost around a recessionista-friendly $6.