Cinderella Shoe Quotes

For God's sake, don't let her watch Cinderella. What kind of example is that? A mindless twit who can't even remember where she left her damn shoe, so she has to wait for some douchebag in tights to bring it to her? Give me a frigging break!

After all, what did Prince Charming know about Cinderella besides her shoe size?

A pair of great heels was much more satisfying than a man. They lasted longer, and better yet, they didn’t leave me for someone prettier.

What was “Cinderella,” if not an allegory for the fundamental unhappiness of shoe shopping?

Ah," he said. "I had an . . . artistic disagreement with the director of the panto. As it happens, I take issue with the objectification of women in Cinderella, and the reliance on shoes as a means of identification. Surely you understand.

Never look back. If Cinderella went to pick up her shoe, she would not had become a princess ....

She Is Cinderella....Though The Shoes Are Not Hers!

You're a stay-at-home mom. Which is very commendable, don't get me wrong. But she should be exposed to career women too. And for God's sake, don't let her watch Cinderella. What kind of example is that? A mindless twit who can't even remember where she left her damn shoe, so she has to wait for some douchebag in tights to bring it to her? Give me a frigging break.

My feet ached in my Cinderella shoes. I shifted my weight and wiggled my toes beneath the cutting Lucite straps. My Prince Charming had finally showed up, I thought wretchedly, and he was too damn late.

Most kids don't believe in fairy tales very long. Once they hit six or seven they put away "Cinderella" and her shoe fetish, "The Three Little Pigs" with their violation of building codes, "Miss Muffet" and her well-shaped tuffet—all forgotten or discounted. And maybe that's the way it has to be. To survive in the world, you have to give up the fantasies, the make-believe. The only trouble is that it's not all make-believe. Some parts of the fairy tales are all too real, all too true. There might not be a Red Riding Hood, but there is a Big Bad Wolf. No Snow White, but definitely an Evil Queen. No obnoxiously cute blond tots, but a child-eating witch… yeah. Oh yeah.

Chase rushed after her in pursuit. The woman lost one of her high-heeled shoes and Chase took advantage of her lack of balance to tackle her. They crashed to the ground. “Why are you running from the ball, Cinderella?” he asked.

People focused so much on the prince slipping on Cinderella’s lost shoe that they didn’t realize the real happily ever after was the moment she realized she was brave enough to go to the damned ball alone in the first place. “I’m not waiting around for some fuckboy to bring me a shoe. I’m here, working for you. I’m finding my own shoe,

Most kids don't believe in fairy tales very long. Once they hit six or seven they put away "Cinderella" and her shoe fetish, "The Three Little Pigs" with their violation of building codes, "Miss Muffet" and her well‐shaped tuffet—all forgotten or discounted.And maybe that's the way it has to be. To survive in the world, you have to give up the fantasies, the make‐believe.

You know,” he says, when he sees where I’m looking. “Cinderella only left one shoe behind.” I fight my embarrassment by rolling my eyes. “Yeah, and Prince Charming didn’t break into her home to find her.” Nero grins. “The villains always have more fun.

Cinderella time?' You knw how it is= got to get home before the shoe falls off. No sense tempting any princes

At midnight, Cinderella ran away from the ball, leaving behind glass slipper. The doors swing slowly close behind, shutting out the sound of the party, and I realize I've lost something far more important than a shoe. I've lost my best friend.

Yes, Cinderella won a real prize - a man who couldn’t see her true worth until she fitted in the shoe properly.

We all want to feel like the most beautiful girl in the room, to be chosen and loved forever. The Cinderella story gives us hope of our impossible dreams becoming true.

Life isn't a fairy tale. If you lose a shoe at midnight, you're drunk.

Cinderella never had it so good. All she got was a lousy coach and breakable shoes.

My story was not a fairy tale of a cruel-hearted girl whose shoes danced her to death, or a kindhearted one who threw her red shoes into the river. This was not a story about a wicked queen made to wear iron heels, or a lovely, golden-haired girl in slippers of glass. This had been about a fever, a nightmare, a dance made into a curse. It was about women turning their own fears into their sharpest blades.

People focused so much on the prince slipping on Cinderella’s lost shoe that they didn’t realize the real happily ever after was the moment she realized she was brave enough to go to the damned ball alone in the first place.

Cinderella was made for more than sweeping the floor.

Crystal shoes And a mare to ride on, A milk white mare, And a silver woven in my hair.

God hasn't called you to walk in someone else's shoes (purpose). He wants you to walk in the shoes that fit you, for which He made you. You aren't going to succeed walking in another woman's shoes.

Not another fucking shoe,’ Duncan shouts. ‘What is this? Cinderella? Hansel and bloody Gretel?’ None of them are convinced by this attempt at a joke. All of them hear the rattle of fear in his voice.

I want to introduce the world to my princess.’ In a state of disbelief, Izzy took his hand and they walked back towards the stage. Happiness bubbled up inside her as it slowly dawned on her that this was real. She lifted her face to look at him. ‘I think I’m going to look cute in a tiara. I’ve never worn anything sparkly on my head before.’ He laughed and tightened his grip on her hand. ‘First thing tomorrow I’m going to buy you one.’ ‘Slow down.’ She winced and stooped to fiddle with her feet. ‘My shoes are hurting.’ ‘This is not news. Your shoes are always hurting, tesoro.’ ‘Do princesses absolutely have to wear shoes at all times?’ A slow smile spread across his face and he scooped her into his arms and carried her the last few steps onto the stage. ‘Of course not. Didn’t you read Cinderella?

Little girls are taught fairy tales that are filled with magic. Cinderella is taught to wait in the kitchen for a guy with the right shoe! Snow White is given the message that if she waits long enough, her prince will come. On a literal level, that story tells women that their destiny depends on waiting for a necrophile (someone who likes to kiss dead people) to stumble through the woods at the right time. Not a pretty picture!

I have to admit," I said when he finished a lengthy discussion on the types of drivers, "I've been golfing and it's about the most boring thing I've ever done. Old men drive around in golf carts pretending they're sporty and getting grouchy if there's any noise. It's like the nursing-home Olympics." Nick's mouth dropped open. "It takes great athletic ability to know how to aim and drive the ball that far." "I get more exercise shopping at the mall," I joked. "I don't come home and tell everyone I won at shopping." Although those red shoes I got on sale the other day felt like a win.

They didn't exchange a single word. But in the weeks that followed, Trip spent his days wandering the halls, hoping for Lux to appear, the most naked person with clothes on he had ever seen. Even in sensible school shoes, she shuffled as though barefoot, and the baggy apparel Mrs. Lisbon bought for her only increased her appeal, as though after undressing she had put on whatever was handy. In corduroys her thighs rubbed together, buzzing, and there was always at least one untidy marvel to unravel him: an untucked shirttail, a sock with a hole, a ripped seam showing underarm hair. She carted her books from class to class but never opened them. Her pens and pencils were as temporary as Cinderella's broom. When she smiled, her mouth showed too many teeth, but at night Trip Fontaine dreamed of being bitten by each one.

Di wrestled with her knitting as if it were Fate, and she were paying off the grudge she owed

I stifle a laugh. Ruby red slippers. Just like Cinderella: it always comes back to the shoes.

Still think the perfect shoe can't change your life? Just ask Cinderella!

what was “Cinderella,” if not an allegory for the fundamental unhappiness of shoe shopping?—

One shoe can change your life.

What do you know, Cinderella?” he said with a smirk. “Looks like Prince Charming came with both shoes this time.

The right outfit and the right pair of shoes can change a woman’s life! If you don’t believe me, just ask Cinderella!

She might not be cinderella to lose her shoe to find her prince or Rapunzel for that matter who will lift him up to set her free only to be lost in him, or Snow-white to be kissed and awakened by a Prince or any other princesses but yet she knows, she believes her destiny has a Prince in store for her - Her man. She would be his Princess and he would be her prince.

Stupid rich man with too much money. Most guys buy a yacht or a fucking island. My guy buys dumb shoes to watch me walk around like a baby deer on ice. My guy? New fury courses through me.

I have always found the rejected stepsisters of Cinderella far more captivating than the story's namesake, and now I knew why. When the shoe did not fit, they cut off their toes, sliced off their heels, squeezed their feet into glass, and lowered their skirts to cover the pain. Perhaps, in the end, the prince made the wrong choice. Such devotion is hard to come by, after all. Look how I will carve myself to fit into your life. Who will not do less?

And for God's sake, don't let her watch Cinderella. What kind of example is that? A mindless twit who can't even remember where she left her damn shoe, so she has to wait for some douchebag in tights to bring it to her? Give me a frigging break!

She hasn't been back since, and we have a young per diem substitute who had taught shoes in a vocational high school on her last job. Though her license is English, she had been called to the Shoe Department, where she traced the history of shoes from Cinderella and Puss in Boots through Galsworthy and modern advertising. "Best shoe lesson they ever had," she told me cheerfully. "Until a cop came in, dangling handcuffs: 'Lady, that kid I gotta have.'" To her, Calvin Coolidge is Paradise.

It was only when she sat and the hem of her dress lifted that I noticed the blood pooling in her glass slippers, the fine crack along one side. Indigo removed the shoes carefully. Two of her toes were blue. Later, we would discover they were broken. Later, I would cradle her ankles and tell her I loved her and insist on carrying her up the stairs and all throughout the house. I had always found the rejected stepsisters of Cinderella far more captivating than the story’s namesake, and now I knew why. When the shoe did not fit, they cut off their toes, sliced off their heels, squeezed their feet into glass, and lowered their skirts to cover the pain. Perhaps, in the end, the prince made the wrong choice. Such devotion is hard to come by, after all. Look how I will carve myself to fit into your life. Who will not do less? In Indigo’s blue toes and ruined skin, I saw a love letter. Gruesome, yes, but for all that it became in the end, it must be said that it was always true.

We keep a safe distance. We only whisper. We duck into the shadows whenever Cinderella turns around. We’re really good at this sneaky thing. I bet we could be spies when we grow up. We’d be the cool brother-and-sister team that gets to go to exotic

Shoes made of glass? That wouldn't be very safe,' the man said. 'They're actually midnight crystal. Much tougher than glass and, thanks to a clear polymer lining that adapts to the shape of your foot, a lot softer too. Glass shoes would just be silly.

Cinderella was the first fairy tale I remember - the one I was most obsessed with because of the gowns and magic and pretty shoes. Yes, her home life was less than ideal - and considering the talking mice and birds, she probably needed serious therapy.

Good morning! The sun is up! Wake up! Time to eat," said the birds. "Good morning," Ashlynn said back. There was a clink of glass slippers against the wood floor, and then her mother appeared in the doorway. She had the same strawberry-blond hair and green eyes as Ashlynn. Her mother was already dressed, but Ashlynn didn't notice the clothes she was wearing. As always, her eyes went right to the glass slippers. Oh, how she loved those shoes. "Chores, dear!" her mother said, leaning over to kiss the top of Ashlynn's head. "And then you should pack." "Yes, Mother!" Ashlynn washed her face, put on an apron, and then opened wide the door to her shoe closet. This princess wouldn't care if she wore a burlap sack every day, so long as she had dozens of footwear choices. Today she settled on a pair of scrappy teal wedges and went to start breakfast. Even though her father's grand house came fully stocked with servants, her mother believed in good, solid, character-forming chores. After all, Ashlynn would inherit her mother's story and become the next Cinderella someday, and there would be lots of floors to mop and hearths to sweep before her Happily Ever After.

Leif snorts. “The dude couldn’t recognize the love of his life without her makeup on and a fancy dress. I mean, how great was Charming really?” “You’re talking about Cinderella, I take it?” I laugh. “Yes. It’s a stupid story. Shoe size is a poor indicator for choosing a life partner. Ask anyone.

Ashlynn washed her face, put on an apron, and then opened wide the door to her shoe closet. This princess wouldn't care if she wore a burlap sack every day, so long as she had dozens of footwear choices. Today she settled on a pair of scrappy teal wedges and went to start breakfast. Even though her father's grand house came fully stocked with servants, her mother believed in good, solid, character-forming chores. After all, Ashlynn would inherit her mother's story and become the next Cinderella someday, and there would be lots of floors to mop and hearths to sweep her Happily Ever After.

And all the sweet talking of your mother?” “I want you two to get along. You need to get along,” Friedrich said. Cinderella peered up at him. “Why?” He hesitated, and his adorable expression of shy uncertainty almost made her laugh. “You’re going to marry me, right?” “You haven’t asked.” “I’ll get to that in a minute. I have it all planned, and it will knock your shoes off—again. So yes, you and mother must get along,

Whenever you're taking advantage of all those rules you make in your favor, you're turning me inside out and when that happens, you’re not white and I'm not black, or poor, or one bad mood on the part of some racist asshole away from being unemployed. In your garden, I'm Eve, and when you take me shoe shopping, I'm Cinderella. On top of your mountain, I feel like Mother Earth. In your house, I'm a lady. You dress me like one and you insist others treat me like one.

There was a clink of glass slippers against the wood floor, and then her mother appeared in the doorway. She had the same strawberry-blond hair and green eyes as Ashlynn. Her mother was already dressed, but Ashlynn didn't notice the clothes she was wearing. As always, her eyes went right to the glass slippers. Oh, how she loved those shoes. "Chores, dear!" her mother said, leaning over to kiss the top of Ashlynn's head. "And then you should pack." "Yes, Mother!" Ashlynn washed her face, put on an apron, and then opened wide the door to her shoe closet. This princess wouldn't care if she wore a burlap sack every day, so long as she had dozens of footwear choices. Today she settled on a pair of scrappy teal wedges and went to start breakfast. Even though her father's grand house came fully stocked with servants, her mother believed in good, solid, character-forming chores. After all, Ashlynn would inherit her mother's story and become the next Cinderella someday, and there would be lots of floors to mop and hearths to sweep her Happily Ever After.

BEATRICE: Laura told me it might help if I read aloud. Mina had given us a book of fairy tales. Blue Fairy Tales? Blue Book of Fairy Tales? I do not remember the exact title. I was never given fairy tales to read as a child, only scientific treatises. How I would have enjoyed them! Although I do not understand how a shoe could fit only one woman in an entire kingdom. DIANA: It was a magical shoe. BEATRICE: Still, that is not logical. I can accept pumpkins turning into coaches, and lizards into footmen, but a shoe will fit many women of the same size. How could the prince know he was choosing the right one?

As the next Cinderella, she would have to marry whichever fairytale prince ended up in her story. But she couldn't help making a small, secret wish that her assigned prince might be the kind who would grab her hand and run off into the woods- build a tree house with her or lie back and watch the stars come out through the canopy. The kind of person who would make a birdhouse for a family of robins. She didn't care about a fancy palace and loads of dresses. Just a cozy cottage somewhere- perhaps with an attached two-story, fully-stocked shoe shed. And a guy with dirt under his fingernails and goodness in his heart.

During a famine, the father and stepmother of Hansel and Gretel abandon them in a forest so that they will starve to death. The children stumble upon an edible house inhabited by a witch, who imprisons Hansel and fattens him up in preparation for eating him. Fortunately Gretel shoves the witch into a fiery oven, and “the godless witch burned to death in a horrible way.” 41 • Cinderella’s stepsisters, when trying to squeeze into her slippers, take their mother’s advice and cut off a toe or heel to make them fit. Doves notice the blood, and after Cinderella marries the prince, they peck out the stepsisters’ eyes, punishing them “for their wickedness and malice with blindness for the rest of their lives.” Snow White arouses the jealousy of her stepmother, the queen, so the queen orders a hunter to take her into the forest, kill her, and bring back her lungs and liver for the queen to eat. When the queen realizes that Snow White has escaped, she makes three more attempts on her life, two by poison, one by asphyxiation. After the prince has revived her, the queen crashes their wedding, but “iron slippers had already been heated up for her over a fire of coals.... She had to put on the red-hot iron shoes and dance in them until she dropped to the ground dead.

The princess found herself being gently prodded and pushed and combed and magicked, and her hair felt weird. When she was spun around to face the mirror again, she was in a yellow dress, waves of sunshine spilling down from her bodice to her toes. Her shoulders were bare, which was a little strange, but they were pale and perfect and delicate. 'Swanlike,' she could hear the minstrel saying. Her hair was loosely braided over one shoulder, a yellow ribbon tying it off. The fairies gasped. "You are 'sooooo' beautiful!" Even 'more' beautiful!" "Can it be possible?" "Look at 'this'," a fairy commanded. With a serious look and a wave of her wand, she transformed the princess again. This time her hair was piled high on her head in an elegant chignon, a simple ribbon holding it back. A light blue dress puffed out around her softly, like a cloud. The finest gloves she had ever worn covered her bare arms up to her shoulders. Funny little tinkling shoes felt chilly on her feet. She put her hands on the skirt and twisted this way and that; what a dress to dance in! She would look like a fairy herself. Or a bride.

Where do you even start with Cinderella? Let's ignore Cinderella's victim status and total lack of self-determination and head straight for the prince who was, let's face it, a bit of a jerk. Despite being captivated by Cinderella's radiant beauty for half the night, come the cold light of day he has completely forgotten what she looks like and only has her shoe size to go on. Either he was suffering from some sort of early onset Alzheimer's disease or else he was completely off his face during the big ball. the end result is that he goes trawling through the kingdom in some sort of perverted foot-fetish style quest for someone, anyone, who fits the glass slipper. Just how superficial is this guy? What if Cinderella had turned up at the ball looking exactly like she did only with a mole on her face and that had a couple of twelve-centimetre hairs sticking out of it? What if a bearded troll just happened to have the same shoe size as Cinderella? 'Ah, well. Pucker up, bushy cheeks, it's snog time.' And no one ever bothers to question the sheer impracticality of Cinderella's footwear. Glass might be good for many things but it's not exactly malleable in its cooled state. If everyone turned and gaped when Cinderella made her big entrance into the ball, it's only because she'd have come staggering in like a drunken giraffe on rollerblades. Bit of a head turner.

So every time I lose one of my shoes and my brother looks at me angrily thinking I’m trying to catch a prince with a lost shoe, or mistakenly cuts myself and the whole world around me thinks I’m trying to attract a vampire, I just laugh sounding like a complete stranger to them. And to everyone like them. I know I don’t need to be a Cinderella. Or an Isabella. I already own things, all things, every single thing, which I love and proudly dream to own. They're just not here…not in this world. And that definitely doesn’t mean, I lost them.

I’m just a common girl wanting to be someone’s Cinderella, hoping that the shoe fits only me.

I feel like I’m Cinderella without the part where she’s chased around the kingdom by a stranger she danced with over a damn shoe. Can you imagine going to a club, dancing with some random guy and having him chase you all over the country afterwards?

I feel like I’m Cinderella without the part where she’s chased around the kingdom by a stranger she danced with over a damn shoe. Can you imagine going to a club, dancing with some random guy and having him chase you all over the country afterwards? That’s called stalking. And it’s not sexy.

Cinderella is found the world over, though many believe she originated in ancient China—bound feet, smallest shoe, foot fetish and whatnot.

Quickly, we have to go after them—” Magnus reached down and scooped her shoes up off the path. Holding them by their satin ribbons, he said, “Not so quickly, Cinderella. Will’s a Shadowhunter. He runs fast. You’ll never catch him.

You know,” he says, when he sees where I’m looking. “Cinderella only left one shoe behind.

Then he does something that surprises me. He gets down on his knee in front of me, placing my hand on his shoulder for balance. He lifts my foot and slides the stiletto onto it, like he’s Prince Charming and I’m Cinderella. His hands are surprisingly gentle as his fingers touch the arch of my foot. He buckles the strap, then puts the other shoe on my opposite foot.

Gregory?” Julia’s voice gentled. She had noticed the sudden change in him. “Please talk to me.” Talk was the last thing he wanted from her now. He didn’t want to talk or to think. He didn’t want to continue to hate himself in front of the one person he was beginning to adore. Gregory didn’t speak the truth. Instead, he lashed out with a lie. “Very well, if you must know. I’m tired of waiting for our bargain to be completed.” He practically growled the words as he turned to her, and Julia shrank back in surprise. “If you’re not interested in your duties as a wife, then say so and I’ll be on my way. But your indecision has interfered with my plans, so either return to the house and find your way into my bed, Your Grace, or bid me farewell.” Julia never spoke, only watched calmly as Gregory finished and rose, tromping off to collect his ward. Felicity was still hopping near the creek, gleefully squealing whenever Miss Winslow attempted to get her under control. “Felicity!” he shouted. That got the child’s attention. “Put your shoes on and return to the house at once—” “Your Grace?” Miss Winslow kept one hand to her bonnet, trying to stop the wind from snatching it away, and pointed at something behind him. “The duchess is leaving.” Gregory whirled around in shock and saw that the governess was right. Julia had taken her horse and was currently riding it in the exact opposite direction of the house. She cantered farther ahead, into the heart of the storm as the clouds burst open and rain began to pound the countryside. Dear God, she’d be soaked and catch her death, or else thrown from her horse in the storm and break her neck. “Damn everything to hell,” Gregory snapped. He raced for his own horse, saddled up, and rode hard after his errant wife.

Cinderella is taught to wait in the kitchen for a guy with the right shoe! Snow White is given the message that if she waits long enough, her prince will come. On a literal level, that story tells women that their destiny depends on waiting for a necrophile (someone who likes to kiss dead people) to stumble through the woods at the right time. Not a pretty picture!

I let the hurt and the sadness wash over me. If she left with the shoe, would they test it? Did she know my name? Was my disappearance even on her radar? It’s not like I was a minor child. How much did anyone care, aside from my parents and friends, that I hadn’t come home. Was Detective Domanska thinking about me now and wondering whether this shoe might be mine? Would this be some kind of macabre Cinderella story? Or was I just a name among so many other names of people who never came home? For all I knew she was a junior detective who had been given the unsavory assignment of driving all the way out here to retrieve a shoe.

Don’t look back. If Cinderella had gone back for her shoe, she wouldn’t be a princess today.

I feel oddly like the prince from Cinderella, but instead of searching for the foot that fits the shoe, I’m looking for the dick that fits my pussy. There’s

Excuse me, Cinderella?” a deep voice called next to my ear. Cinderella? I removed my hand from my face to look at the guy who belonged to that voice, then quickly pushed myself up onto my elbows when I took in his face, so close to mine. My cheeks burned with embarrassed heat, but I didn’t know how to look away from him. Despite a large red mark on his forehead, his face was flawless and masculine, with a strong brow and nose, a smirk I knew would’ve made my knees weak had I been standing, and a lethal stare from green eyes so clear it was as if I could see through the iris. My gaze had become so fixated on the way his lips moved that it took a few seconds too long to realize he’d said something. “I’m sorry, what?” The smirk broadened for a brief moment, giving me a glimpse of straight, white teeth. He leaned over me until his lips were at my ear, and if I’d had the capability to breathe around him, I would’ve stopped then. “I said I think you lost this,” he drawled, and I swooned. Literally . . . swooned. As in: all the air left my body in one hard rush, I was unable to keep myself up on my elbows any longer, my head felt light and dizzy, the room spun, and I was pretty sure I’d just entered a romance novel. It really didn’t matter that it was from the lingering effects of nearly choking to death, and then unknowingly holding my breath for too long. “Whoa.” He quickly put a hand under my head before it could smack on the hardwood floor. “I’m fine,” I said breathlessly, and internally berated myself for doing everything imaginable to look like an idiot tonight. I tried to sit up, but the guy was still hovering over me, making it impossible to go farther than I’d been. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Yes,” I promised, and blew out a steadying breath when he sat back. “Good. I can’t have you passing out on me, Cinderella.” “Cin—” My head shook firmly as I corrected him. “No, my name is Rorie.” With another slow smirk, he gestured to the red mark on his forehead for barely a second, then reached behind him and produced my stiletto. My embarrassment from earlier couldn’t compare to the level it was at then as I put it all together. My shoe had flown into his face. “Oh my God,” I whispered so low, the words drifted away with the bass of the music. “I’m so sorry.” He laughed easily, as if he hadn’t just taken a five-inch stiletto to the face, and glanced from my shoe to me. “My name is Declan,” he provided. “I already know this shoe belongs to you. What I want to know now, Cinderella, is if I give this back to you, are you going to run away from me?” Despite

Excuse me, Cinderella?” a deep voice called next to my ear. Cinderella? I removed my hand from my face to look at the guy who belonged to that voice, then quickly pushed myself up onto my elbows when I took in his face, so close to mine. My cheeks burned with embarrassed heat, but I didn’t know how to look away from him. Despite a large red mark on his forehead, his face was flawless and masculine, with a strong brow and nose, a smirk I knew would’ve made my knees weak had I been standing, and a lethal stare from green eyes so clear it was as if I could see through the iris. My gaze had become so fixated on the way his lips moved that it took a few seconds too long to realize he’d said something. “I’m sorry, what?” The smirk broadened for a brief moment, giving me a glimpse of straight, white teeth. He leaned over me until his lips were at my ear, and if I’d had the capability to breathe around him, I would’ve stopped then. “I said I think you lost this,” he drawled, and I swooned. Literally . . . swooned. As in: all the air left my body in one hard rush, I was unable to keep myself up on my elbows any longer, my head felt light and dizzy, the room spun, and I was pretty sure I’d just entered a romance novel. It really didn’t matter that it was from the lingering effects of nearly choking to death, and then unknowingly holding my breath for too long. “Whoa.” He quickly put a hand under my head before it could smack on the hardwood floor. “I’m fine,” I said breathlessly, and internally berated myself for doing everything imaginable to look like an idiot tonight. I tried to sit up, but the guy was still hovering over me, making it impossible to go farther than I’d been. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Yes,” I promised, and blew out a steadying breath when he sat back. “Good. I can’t have you passing out on me, Cinderella.” “Cin—” My head shook firmly as I corrected him. “No, my name is Rorie.” With another slow smirk, he gestured to the red mark on his forehead for barely a second, then reached behind him and produced my stiletto. My embarrassment from earlier couldn’t compare to the level it was at then as I put it all together. My shoe had flown into his face. “Oh my God,” I whispered so low, the words drifted away with the bass of the music. “I’m so sorry.” He laughed easily, as if he hadn’t just taken a five-inch stiletto to the face, and glanced from my shoe to me. “My name is Declan,” he provided. “I already know this shoe belongs to you. What I want to know now, Cinderella, is if I give this back to you, are you going to run away from me?” Despite my humiliation, my lips spread into a smile as the name finally made sense. I reached for the shoe, but Declan held it away from me. His expression showed he was still waiting for an answer. With a raised eyebrow, I said, “I lost both shoes. I don’t care what Disney said, a girl can’t run away very easily with only one shoe.” His smirk stretched to match my smile, and he dipped his head close. “Then I’m keeping the other one that hit the back of my head.

For God's sake, don't let her watch Cinderella. What kind of example is that? A mindless twit who can't even remember where she left her damn shoe, so she has to wait for some douchebag in tights to bring it to her? Give me a frigging break!

I’m extremely satisfied for a Friday morning, which will only bleed into my call, ensuring I get exactly what I want. I begin my usual pacing as the cogs inside my brain start turning. But then I hear a crackle. Small. Insignificant. But, oh-so-wrong. Pausing, I lift my foot. Nothing. I drop my foot and take another step. Crackle. A flare of fury rises inside me like a volcano, angrily erupting. Lifting my foot once more, I grab my ankle and twist to see what’s on the bottom of my shoe.

It's not whether the shoe fits. It's all about the form of the foot

Maybe tangled will be a spectacular rump. maybe i will adore it: it could happen. But one thing is for sure: tangled will not be rapunzel. And thats too bad , because rapunzel is an specially layered and relevant fairytale, less about the love between a man and a woman than the misguided attempts of a mother trying to protect her daughter from (what she perceives ) as the worlds evils. The tale, you may recall, begins with a mother-to-bes yearning for the taste of rapunzel, a salad green she spies growing in the garden of the sorceress who happens to live next door. The womans craving becomes so intense , she tells her husband that if he doesn't fetch her some, she and their unborn baby will die. So he steals into the baby's yard, wraps his hands around a plant, and, just as he pulls... she appears in a fury. The two eventually strike a bargain: the mans wife can have as much of the plant as she wants- if she turns over her baby to the witch upon its birth. `i will take care for it like a mother,` the sorceress croons (as if that makes it all right). Then again , who would you rather have as a mom: the woman who would do anything for you or the one who would swap you in a New York minute for a bowl of lettuce? Rapunzel grows up, her hair grows down, and when she is twelve-note that age-Old Mother Gothel , as she calls the witch. leads her into the woods, locking her in a high tower which offers no escape and no entry except by scaling the girls flowing tresses. One day, a prince passes by and , on overhearing Rapunzel singing, falls immediately in love (that makes Rapunzel the inverse of Ariel- she is loved sight unseen because of her voice) . He shinnies up her hair to say hello and , depending on the version you read, they have a chaste little chat or get busy conceiving twins. Either way, when their tryst is discovered, Old Mother Gothel cries, `you wicked child! i thought i had separated you from the world, and yet you deceived me!` There you have it : the Grimm`s warning to parents , centuries before psychologists would come along with their studies and measurements, against undue restriction . Interestingly the prince cant save Rapuzel from her foster mothers wrath. When he sees the witch at the top of the now-severed braids, he jumps back in surprise and is blinded by the bramble that breaks his fall. He wanders the countryside for an unspecified time, living on roots and berries, until he accidentally stumbles upon his love. She weeps into his sightless eyes, restoring his vision , and - voila!- they rescue each other . `Rapunzel` then, wins the prize for the most egalitarian romance, but that its not its only distinction: it is the only well-known tale in which the villain is neither maimed nor killed. No red-hot shoes are welded to the witch`s feet . Her eyes are not pecked out. Her limbs are not lashed to four horses who speed off in different directions. She is not burned at the stake. Why such leniency? perhaps because she is not, in the end, really evil- she simply loves too much. What mother has not, from time to time, felt the urge to protect her daughter by locking her in a tower? Who among us doesn't have a tiny bit of trouble letting our children go? if the hazel branch is the mother i aspire to be, then Old Mother Gothel is my cautionary tale: she reminds us that our role is not to keep the world at bay but to prepare our daughters so they can thrive within it. That involves staying close but not crowding them, standing firm in one`s values while remaining flexible. The path to womanhood is strewn with enchantment , but it also rifle with thickets and thorns and a big bad culture that threatens to consume them even as they consume it. The good news is the choices we make for our toodles can influence how they navigate it as teens. I`m not saying that we can, or will, do everything `right,` only that there is power-magic-in awareness.

And for the final touch…” Angelique placed the glass slippers she held on the ground. “I couldn’t,” Cinderella protested. “Please.” Angelique smiled. “They are not what I was searching for, and I have no use for them.” “I cannot thank you enough.” Cinderella slid her feet into the shoes. They were surprisingly comfortable—as if made of pillows of water rather than glass.

What’s in the wagon?” Cinderella asked. “You can just sense money, can’t you? It’s gold.” “What for?” “It’s the exact amount Aveyron owed Mother before you paid off the debt. It is my bribe in case you decide to say no. Sit here, on that bench. Yes, face this way, perfect.” Friedrich arranged her on the bench next to the hulking wild rose bush. “Put both feet on the ground, this shoe off, please, thank you.” Friedrich twitched one of her shoes off her feet. “Stay. There.

How rude of me. I almost forgot,” Friedrich said before presenting her with the basket. Inside the basket sat a glass slipper, and nestled in the shoe’s toe, a sparkling ring. “I made the basket myself.” He removed the ring from the shoe before sliding it over her finger. On

You’re a stay at home mom. Which is commendable, don’t get me wrong. But she should be exposed to career women too. And for God’s sake, don’t let her watch Cinderella. What kind of example is that? A mindless twit who can’t even remember where she left her damn shoe, so she has to wait for some douchebag in tights to bring it to her? Give me a frigging break!

Stepmother taps her chin and frowns at Moody’s dress. “She needs some pin tucks in the skirt to give it more lift. And put some padding into the bodice to fill out her bosom-” “Motherrr!” Moody whines. “What? It’s no secret you’re flat as a floor.” Loony cackles while Moody throws a murderous look. “At least my chest doesn’t fall on my lap when I sit down.” Loony frowns. “Are you calling me fat?” “Well, if the shoe fits-” “Come, come, girls,” Stepmother says. I’m glad she stopped them. I’ve seen my stepsisters fight before and it’s like cats, all clawing and hissing. I don’t care if they go to the ball with red scratches on their faces but they could ruin Moody’s gown. “You

She’s better than nothing – sort of – and I’m desperate. So here goes. “Fairy Godmother, come to my aid, help me to fix this mess that I’ve made.” Yes, that’s really what she told me to say. I stare at the starry sky and wait. “Hello, brat.” I nearly jump out of my shoes. I whirl around with my hand on my chest. “Crackers, Godnutter, can’t you make a little noise? Stir the wind before you come?” She’s right behind me, large and solid. Looking, as usual, like she just rolled out of bed. Her gray hair is piled in a lopsided bun with sprays that stick out like weeds. She wears a green dress, slightly crumpled, and her transparent wings point out behind her. And, like always, she’s smoking. Godnutter

Cinderella proof that a new pair of shoes can change your life.

So I’d just given Rorie a huge Jolly Rancher, and this massive naked guy ran into her and she started choking. I thought he was going to kill her with the way he was trying to do the Heimlich maneuver on her. Anyway, while he was helping her, her shoes flew off, and both hit Declan in the head. He came over after and called her Cinderella, and it was super-romantic . . . and the end! Love at first sight and all that.” Taylor was breathing hard, and I was pretty sure my breaths matched each one of hers. “That’s awesome, man,” Jentry said after a beat of silence, and bumped Declan’s shoulder. “I’m happy for you. Cinderellas losing their shoes, love at first sight, happy ever after. It’s what you deserve.” Gone were the taunting tones, the challenging smirks, and heated stares. His focus was solely on Declan, and he seemed genuinely happy for Declan . . . for us. Hard and soft, just as I remembered. Declan’s

Perfect time to worry about important things like how stupid was Cinderella to leave a shoe behind. Who the fuck does that?

Once upon a time, all the clocks chimed midnight. Cinderella flees from the ball as her illusion unweaves. Beauty races towards her Beast before the last echo of the clock falls silent. Illusions fall. Magic ends. The clock chimes. Nothing lasts forever, and midnight is a purposeful stop. A pause to remind you that there is always a clock ticking. There will never be enough time, and for every Beauty who saves her Beast, there will be a voiceless mermaid who dissolves into sea foam. But there is another thing about midnight. It is when illusions break. When you can see the truth beneath them, if you are looking. There is always a crack in the illusion, a gap in the perfection, even if it is only visible with the ticking of a clock. Midnight is when you look, if there is a truth you need to see. If you are brave enough to bear what you witness. For just a moment, the smoke dissipates, the mirrors shatter, and the glamour is gone. All that's left is the truth of the story, the truth in your heart, your darkest secret. A glass shoe abandoned on the stairs. Once upon a time. Tick. Tock.

You might as well ask me to pick a bride based on the size and make of her shoe.

Hey, Cinderella, you lost your shoe.

One shoe can change your life...