Hunger, Perfectionism, Shoes

Let’s just start with a Single Story instead of miles in shoes that never fit us before.

Up until yesterday, the person who came up with the statement “walk a mile in someone else’s shoes” was on my “If we cross paths, I am entitled to punch you in the face” list.

Truth. He or she was right up there, wedged between the individual responsible for spelling “love” with a U and the genius who began the “Wuts up? Nm, U? Nm. Cool” phenomenon. So, if you see any of these culprits lurking around the café or the aquarium, or wherever you lurk, punch them in the face and tell them that Jane Austen and Shakespeare sent you.

I’ve always thought it was a horrid, stuffy statement. Walking a mile in the shoes of someone else. Wah, wah, wah! They are too tight. They don’t fit. The heels are too high. And they are clunky, clunky, clunky. I can barely stand and you would expect me to learn how to walk?

I’ve been a long time chewer and spitter upper of “shoey” statements until these love letter requests began rattling my world. They keep pouring into my inbox and half the time I just want to write across a page: What keeps you walking? How the heck do you even wake up and decide to walk?

Shove it in an envelope. Drop it in the mail.

It’s like we are keeping this big secret that if released into the night would be the key to telling another that we’ve been there before. That we’ve known those same shoes, splayed with mud. That we’ve worn the same rain boots, the same sneakers, to bite back the pain. And how did it get so lost? How did it become something we only talk about under the lights of glassy conference hall, before a speaker with a booming voice and 8,000 individuals who are shimmying into the skins of vulnerability like a wet suit.

I’m believing lately that it is easier to tell an Ugly Story, to guide another into a Safe Place of Sameness, by first sinking back into those shoes that fit our feet at the time. The converse sneakers we slid into on the night where we gathered courage by the  armful, like hot whites falling from the drier, and found a way to tell him it was over. The snow boots we wore on the day a police car pulled up and forever rearranged the way we would take family photos. No mother? No brother?

It’s remarkably easier to tell you about the pair of black heels, with the now frayed bows, that I wore while falling in love for the very first time. How they fit my feet. The blisters that later kissed my heels when all I could say in the mirror was, He Kissed Me. How that night was jutted with stars and I thought someone might say it to me, “You know, you are beautiful”. And even if they didn’t, I’d still know it was glowing off my skin. How I got caught in the rain in those heels once. And I didn’t mind. The mud & water were good for them in the same way that falling into love was good for a girl made up of 80% climbing.

It’s simpler to tell you that I wore a pair of combat boots most days when I lived in the Bronx because they made me feel braver. Black boots from the Gap, I’ll tell you how I zipped them straight up before I ever tell you how I lived a scared kind of life. A life that left me wondering, as I waited for the walking man to light up on the other side of the road, “Am I Really A Child Of God? Or Has He Forgotten Me In All This Mess?”

I’m starting to believe that it really has nothing to do with walking a mile in the shoes of another. Maybe it would be just enough to acknowledge the walking. To commend, even if we cannot understand, the fact that we all got up today and decided to push forward. That some of us are wearing cowboy boots and contemplating if the world would care if we were gone tomorrow. That others are lacing up baseball cleats and rounding a set of bases for a best friend of ours that is hooked up to IVs in a hospital room.

What good would it be to walk a mile in your shoes? The world needs me to walk in my own. Just tell me that you are walking. Tell me when you get all stuck. Tell me when you need to sit. I get it, I get it, today might just be a day for walking a few steps instead of Fully, Really Away this time.

Let’s just start with a Single Story instead of miles in shoes that never fit us before. Stories about walking. And the shoes we wear to face the day.

For a Better World, Girl meets Boy, God, Shoes, The Tough Stuff, Tragedy, Uncategorized

“Look,” she told my mother. “It’s me and Fred dancing.”

I wonder how we’ll dance. All of the time. I wonder if we’ll fox trot or side step. Shimmy or Waltz. If the music will come endlessly. If the record player will turn.

I picture a pearly floored ballroom. Mozart revived and stunning on the piano. God showing off his hidden talents with the strings of a cello. Mr. Blue Eyes Sinatra himself, captivating all of heaven’s dance floor with his debonair swagger and the alto roar of his voice.

But, if I want to talk about Heaven and the epic chance to finally toast my glass with Billie Holiday, I need to rest my fingers on this keyboard and tap out what comes first, the very thing that we may never come to understand for as long as we sink our feet into earthy ground.


I’ve thought a great deal about death lately, as he seems to be coming up in conversation more than I would like. Linking arms selfishly with people I believe still needed more time.  I don’t even like typing the word “death” because it seems to come weighted down with all sorts of tragic connotations. As if Sadness & Stuffiness & Discomfort are all sitting down on my keyboard, refusing to get up.

It is always when I see someone pass away, someone who seems too young or too needed in this world,  that I find myself attempting to slip into God’s shoes. Try as I might, my feet don’t even take up an inch of space in his massive Converse sneakers. I cannot even pretend to clunk around for a mile in his shoes as if I were back to the days of being Little and Girlish, playing dress up with Grandma’s night gowns and chalky, burlesque lipstick.

But, ironically, it is also always when a beautiful soul takes her leave on this earth to swoop across clouds up to Those Gates that I feel God coming up behind me– clomp, clomp, clomp–in his converse sneakers, to whisper in my ear. “I made you for many things, child. Understanding the way my world operates was never one of them.

And once again I fall back under His Unmistakable Power. Knowing little. Understanding less. But still wishing I could explain why several Grandmas get pulled back up to the clouds before lunchtime.

I’ll never know why God plants the best grilled cheese makers and advice givers all over the planet. I don’t know why he sews us into daughters and sisters, lovers and friends. Why he pulls us off this earth when our work is done. It’s a glorious thing, but it leaves holes in the human hearts, of those who loved us all the days of our lives; the ones who seem to need us here on earth, sitting beside them, holding our hands. Seeking our shoulders.

A dear member of our church passed away this week. Sitting in pews on Sunday morning, a thick layer of sadness rose up to the rafters and rolled down the aisles. Suddenly there was no denying that the world gets heavier with one less mother, one less grandma, one less distinct laugh to fill the space that calls us all to worship.

My mother visited her in the hospital a few days before her passing . She showed off her favorite photograph.  A picture of she and her husband diving and dipping across a dance floor. “Look,” she told my mother. “It’s me and Fred dancing.”

She passed two days later. Some believe she was a victim to a broken heart, her husband passing away ten months prior, but everyone knew for certain that she was ready to dance with Fred again.

Ready to dance. Beyond this world. Because standing here in heels that hurt my feet by the end of the day,  I have no choice but to believe that we were made for something more beautiful, beyond this. That, up there, somewhere over those Rainbows and all that Judy Garland once sang about, exists a place for us to dance. And jig. And wear the best red shoes. And take the hands of ones we loved and lost to finally be found over & over again. For all of eternity.

And perhaps this is the reason, poking up like sunlight from the cracks of tragedy, for being here. Maybe God shuffled us down here so we could do our best, and learn the etching of our own footprints in the sand. So we could stumble and fall and lean on him when we lose all stability. And search this life all over like blind men on the boardwalk, looking for dance partners to know our steps. Know our shuffle. Our hop. Our skip.

To practice dancing on the ground. To learn the hands and eyes that we’ll go searching for long after we’ve parted on this earth when we get to that pearly dance floor. The piano cuts. The crowd clears. And finally, the word “forever” will exist like we have never known it before, as we are reunited with those familiar hands. They’ll clasp our cheeks and pull our faces close to theirs and dip us down to touch the ground, whispering softly, “I told you darling, we’d be dancing again.”

Girl meets Boy, Love Yourself, Shoes, Uncategorized

Not every story is a love story. Not every kiss comes with melting capabilities. But let’s not rule them out.

She is teaching me how to make wishes on hot tub bubbles in between rounds of singing “Kiss the Girl.”

You have to close your eyes and blow hard,” she says. Purple popsicle smears the edges of her mouth as she demonstrates, holding up her cupped hands full of quickly dissipating bubbles.

“What do I wish for?”

“Either a princess crown or a princess dress,” her words tote a tone of matter-of-factness.

“Well, why not a prince? Maybe I want a prince.”

“You cannot wish for a prince. You are not a princess, Hannah. You are just a babysitter.”


Audrey is a lover of princesses. Her heart does an enormous tap dance over Sleeping Beauty and Ariel. She has a pair of plastic pumps with the faces of each damsel adorned on the tops of them.

This summer I have gained a sense of sympathy for these princesses. In just three days of babysitting I managed to force an apple down Snow White’s throat seven times. I made Cinderella lose her slipper a good eight times. I will more than likely plop Jasmine down on a magic carpet three more times before the week finds its ending. The sympathy grows as I flip the pages of books with crippled bindings to tell Audrey the same story of Jasmine or Ariel six or seven times a day.

Each time I see her scooping up the romance, the prince and princess riding off into the sunset, the kiss that all little girls hinge their satisfaction on, and then she moves on. Onto the Next Story of the Next Princess with the Next Happy Ending.

via WeHeartIt

One day she will grow up, plastic shoes will no longer fit her and she will gain her first glimpse of a love song that does not come accompanied by squirrels and birds as the percussionists. But I pray she won’t want to write off the fairy tales forever, for lying to her and leading her on.

We only need to look a bit further into the same stories of our childhoods to realize that adversity did exist in each and every one of them. The stories were not solely about love and princes. We just chose not to pay too close attention to this at the time.

My mom and I had an argument about this the other day. And she won. Yes, that is right Mom, you won.

“We are teaching young girls that if you leave a glass slipper behind then some prince will return it, or that some guy is going to save you when you are locked up in a castle. Little girls should be embracing their own happy endings, not relying on a guy to do it for them.” Yes, that would be me turning on my Raging Feminist side at the drop of Cinderella’s name.

If you forgot Hannah, Cinderella was abused by her step mother and step sister. Snow White ran away from abuse as well, and she loved those little dwarves and they loved her.” Touche, Mom. Those princesses did their best for the circumstances they were given, what is the point of criticizing their definition of a happy ending?

I know that at the age of seven I would not want to be lulled to sleep by a storybook about a broken heart and broken dishes leftover from a fight that took place at midnight. I would never want to read about the sound of a car door, how this time the sound was different, it was the sound of Leaving. Who knows, perhaps Snow White found cheating text messages from Prince, maybe he got bored with her and wanted to try out Ariel. For all we know, Jasmine may have fallen out of love with Aladdin but she deemed it better to tell a perfect love story, the one of a street rat meets princess, than to make things messy and make people talk. I don’t know. Either way, I think I like the stories I was made to believe better than a less than magical reality to fill my bedtime story time slot.

Some might say that we are naive to accept promises of “happy ever after”s and kisses that wake us up out of deep spells. But maybe it is best that we learn to believe in this kind of fairy tale magic at a young age, so that we remember to dream. And Believe That Our Dreams Can Come True.

I sometimes must beat down the urge to tell little Audrey that she does not need a prince to make her happy. But then I think about it, maybe she will grow up and pine for a great love story. Maybe that will make her completely happy, and who I am to stop her from that?

Hey Audrey, if you remember anything beyond the fact that my favorite princess is Snow White, remember this from your babysitter when you grow up: Not every story in your life has to be a love story. And trust me, not every occurrence will resemble a fairy tale. Adversity will be important. Hardships, Hard Times and Hard Lessons Learned will be just as essential as that kiss that might one day make your little heart melt.

Just remember to be happy. Have the courage to change a situation if it needs to be changed, whether that means employing the help of a fairy godmother or finding the resilience deep down inside of yourself. If it means running, then You Should Run. If it makes you happy to fall in love, then fall, baby, fall.

Don’t go out in the world to be the next Ariel, Jasmine, or Snow White. Be Audrey. Tell the world of a love story that only Audrey can tell.

Big Dreams, Poverty, Reality, Shoes, Simply Living, The Tough Stuff, Tragedy

I can never give credit to all that is wrong. The spotlight belongs to those who make right.

Once upon a time, there was a wise man who used to go to the ocean to do his writing. He had a habit of walking on the beach before he began his work.

One day, as he was walking along the shore, he looked down the beach and saw a human figure moving like a dancer. He smiled to himself at the thought of someone who would dance to the day, and so, he walked faster to catch up.

As he got closer, he noticed that the figure was that of a young man, and that what he was doing was not dancing at all. The young man was reaching down to the shore, picking up small objects, and throwing them into the ocean.

He came closer still and called out “Good morning! May I ask what it is that you are doing?”

The young man paused, looked up, and replied “Throwing starfish into the ocean.”

“I must ask, then, why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?” asked the somewhat startled wise man.

To this, the young man replied, “The sun is up and the tide is going out. If I don’t throw them in, they’ll die.”

Upon hearing this, the wise man commented, “But, young man, do you not realize that there are miles and miles of beach and there are starfish all along every mile? You can’t possibly make a difference!”

At this, the young man bent down, picked up yet another starfish, and threw it into the ocean. As it met the water, he said, “It made a difference for that one.”

I am a long ways away from ever having children (I have much to learn before I can teach) but my girlfriends and I often stumble into conversations about one day raising kids. We joke about “our children” and what sports they might try or if we will dare to make them into “beauty queens” like some of the hellish mothers on television. But ultimately, we wonder what values and morals we will give to our children. What Pearls Of Wisdoms We Will Want Our Little Ones To Savor. And though I often debate on the answer to this question, after this weekend I think I am sure of how to answer this question.

You see, I won’t care if my child does not want to write or does not want to dance. I want my children to be whatever their little hearts pray to be, but I want them to know one thing, more than anything at all: People are going to tell you that you cannot make a difference in this world. Never listen to cynics, only keep striving to leave this world better off for having had you around. I want them to know that even with all the tragedy and the heartbreak in this big globe of ours, they can play a part in making it more blue, more green and more humane. It sounds whimsical, perhaps too idealistic, but I only speak it because I see it and I know it to be true.

I spent this past weekend at a dance competition put on by the non-profit Kids for Kids: Dancing for Life. I grew up learning to dream with this organization, one that started fifteen years ago as a grassroots project and has now expanded to help donate over $700,000 to children’s causes, putting on a 4-day competition for dancers all over New England. All the proceeds from the competition go towards local charities, presented with checks throughout the long weekend. Now that is a lot of good. But more glorious than all the funds that one check can hold is the fact that the little dancers know and learn throughout the weekend that their dances are different this time around. This time their twirls and pirouettes are dedicated to a child in a hospital receiving chemo or a family who has lost their father and is in need of scholarship money. By doing what they love, the art of dance, they are impacting the world and changing it. Shifting It. Daring It To Be. Look. Feel. Different.

We can easily watch the 5p.m. news tonight and feel the weight of a heavy world crashing onto our shoulders. But where will that get us? How will that renew us? What good are we if we are sunken by the tragedies that hold so much potential to pummel us?

I dare say that we need to shift our view point. We need to stop identifying all that is wrong, because the list will never end, and start small in making things right. A donation here. A few volunteer hours there. Lord knows I will never be the best salad maker in the world (though I made 250 in a few short hours) or ever master the art of making the perfect cannoli but this weekend it did not matter, it only mattered that I tried to do my part. And The Essence Is In The Trying. As checks were passed and passed and passed to people whose faces turned golden by the generosity, I knew at that very moment: We are so capable of making the difference that we grow up dreaming and believing in. We exist for a million little reasons but we must be the ones to dare those reasons into existence.

Big Dreams, Girl meets Boy, Reality, Shoes

Sorry Sleeping Beauty, I am just not that big of a dreamer.

So who instructed me to look up to a maid who only got the chance to attend one party in her life and messed it all up by losing one of her shoes?

I am one, amongst millions of other young girls, who spent the bulk of my adolescence looking up to the Disney Princesses. I had the collection of Barbie dolls lining my shelves. I donned plastic heels with their pretty faces creepily printed on the front of them. And I allowed myself to be fed the message that most young girls spend well into adulthood digesting: Someday my prince would come.

Bad role models. I have discussed this numerous times with a close friend of mine, how these seemingly innocent princesses in pastel colored dresses really are not good role models. What lesson did they actually teach us at such a young and impressionable age? To sit around and daydream all day, maybe hum a tune with some talking animals, until a man rode in on his horse to rescue us? Hm, somehow I don’t see a man riding down the busy streets of Worcester on a horse, looking for me, any time soon.

Take Snow White for instance (my favorite of the princesses): What should I really learn from a young woman who spends all her time doing chores for little bitty men and then is naive enough to open her door to strangers and openly accept food from them? I have been tainted. I have been jaded. I have been filled with false hope and I am finally speaking up. Cinderella? Ariel? Sleeping Beauty? What do you girls really want from us? Don’t you see that you are extreme rarities in this world?

In all the Disney movies, Prince Charming always falls in love with the lady for her astounding amount of beauty. Cinderella and Princey never talked politics or the war in Iraq, all she had to do was dance with the guy and manage to be clumsy enough to lose a shoe right off of her foot in order to steal his heart. Well I have tried leaving my shoes in numerous places but I have yet to have them returned to me by a hunk who is still drooling from our last interaction.

Ariel and Prince Eric never sat down at Starbucks to get to know each other or catch a chick flick. In fact, if you all still remember the Little Mermaid, the girl did not even have a voice the whole time. She gave it up, her one talent, to grow some feet to impress this guy. What happened to not giving up parts of ourselves to please someone else?

And what about Sleeping Beauty? She did not even have to do anything to make the Prince fall in love with her. Nope, she merely slept her life away until the Prince tracked her down and rescued her.

Here is the point: I don’t think that a guy would ever fall in love with me if I was in a coma. I don’t believe that in real life a guy will show up on my balcony with a magic flying rug (at least I hope not). I think this idea of Prince Charming needs to rest in peace.

We are in the 21st century, a guy can certainly be charming but there is no need to play the damsel in distress role. These Disney divas were fools, bad role models, dreamers who got lucky. They did not have the awkward silences, they never shuddered to introduce the Prince to their embarrassing families and Prince Charming was certainly not shooting them a text to say “What’s up?” Falling in love is not one easy slice of pie and it is certainly not one bite out of a poison apple.

I give up on you girls, that’s right Cinderelly, I am talking straight to ya. Fall in love with me for my wit, my charm, my brains- anything besides the fact that I am missing one shoe and I do the laundry and cleaning for seven other men.

Best Friends, Shoes, Simply Living, Uncategorized

Life is made more beautiful through pointed toes

“I believe part of the process of figuring yourself out is a way of connecting the dots between the fabulous and influential people all around us- you only need to know where to look.” AO-

Some places have stories. They have memories and dreams, legacies and pieces of your heart adorned to them like an over crowded Girl Scout’s sash.

Here is the most beautiful truth I know: There is no greater feeling than to be able to walk into a place and have the stories flood back to you. The Memories Ask You To Dance And You Are Home.

It is those places where we grow up, on the soccer field, our second grade classroom, the home of our grandparents. These places of our childhood stick to us, and though the glue has dried we continue to be held together.

If I wish to hold true to myself and really pour my heart and soul into this blog then there is a group of individuals, a place that has defined me that I must recognize: The Dancer’s Studio

Life is full of meeting people, some faces we will never be able to trace from a crowd again but some remarkable stars that will teach us how to live life; they give us the strength to believe in ourselves and dare to let the world hear our voice.

I grew up at a dance barre.

Amidst the lessons of how to perform a shuffle or Cincinnati, how to spot when turning and how not to “sickle” my feet, I was learning more important lessons about passion, the importance of being an individual in this cookie cutter world, overcoming fears and accepting flaws.

I always knew that I was not the best dancer in the room. No matter the practice I put myself through outside the classroom I never came back to the dance barre being able to take the new steps with stride. But as my teachers taught me- you do not need to be the best at something to love it deeply. If You Love Something Deeply Trust Yourself To Let It Show.

I grew up with stars too bright for Broadway.

I am a firm believer that when you stumble across people who inspire you to be better then you should always let them know. So here it is, to all those who have one time or another stood next to me at the ballet barre, or laughed with me in the waiting room. To all those who helped me with my make-up or cheered me on the from the tuckings of the stage curtain. You made me into the person I am today. I smile a little wider because I know you. I outstretch my hands a little father because I know you. I believe more fully in myself because I know you.

Some of these beautiful individuals will one day have  a name in lights or a star on their dressing room door. They deserve this at least. All of these wonderful people deserve every dream they pin their heart to and it gives me the greatest of honor just to say that I know them.

I grew up.

A bold statement on my part since I constantly believe I am growing with each day. But I can look at those 15 years spent at the studio, no matter its present location, and be able to point at certain moments and say, “That is where I first understood.” “That is where I wanted to give up but didn’t.” “That is where I grew up.”

I watched myself transform from a shy little girl who could barely reach the barre to an independent young lady who was determined to make her life shine brighter than the sequins on her head piece. I need only look at the people of the Dancer’s Studio, from Sharon & the teachers, Chelsea & my classmates, Mara & and my younger students, to know that my definition of “growing up” has been made absolutely perfect through them.

A part of growing up, as I have said before, is moving forward and parts of our past right there, in the past. But not a day goes by where I do not smile at the thought of how I learned my way in this world: in a place where we magically took dance lessons far past any sound that could come from a tap shoe.

Girl meets Boy, Shoes

The shoes that fit our feet

Girls in particular will get this next one.

Did we not learn anything from Cinderella’s ugly step sisters? Of course I am not calling any of us ugly, but really, why were they so adamant to make that darn glass slipper fit? My friend and I had a conversation about this this past summer, why, even if the shoe does not fit, do we insist on jamming our foot into it? No, I am not talking about those killer heels that I found at DSW the other night, I am simply talking about guys. Cliche, yes, but guys are like shoes. There are those shoes that don’t fit but we kill ourselves to  try and make them, the shoes that fit but they hurt the whole time we are wearing them, and then there are those shoes that we simply grow out of… we loved them while they lasted but now they only exist in old photographs.

Shoes that don’t fit

My roommates, best friends and I subject ourselves this kind of torture on a regular basis. We meet guys, nice guys, guys you might want to bring home to meet the parentals and yet you just don’t click. Why?! Why can’t we fall in love with the guy who has it all together, the guy who has the killer resume and looks extremely good on and off paper? Its especially disheartening when we meet a “keeper” but then try as we might, we have no interest in keeping them. I haven’t figured this one out yet, why we are so determined to try to wedge our little feet into these kinds of shoes, we will deal with being unhappy or faking it because they look good on us, they send a message to people, they show off that we are capable of having the whole ensemble. But are we ever fully happy with these shoes? Do we ever fully get to love them? Sometimes I think, as hard as it is to except that we don’t always adore the guy who comes off as prince charming and will treat us like a princess, maybe it is best that when we try these kinds of shoes on and we know they don’t fit that we leave them on the shelf. That we don’t even buy them because we know eventually we will have to use the receipt.

Shoes that just plain hurt

Girls are idiots a lot of the time. Being one, I can attest. We have all met those guys who give us attention and they make us feel special but they hurt us in so many ways. They are the pair of heels that are too high for comfort, the ones that leave us blistered at the end of the night. We cry over these ones, our friends yell at us to come to our senses, but we never listen and we just shove themselves into these small and crowded menaces.

In the original story book of Cinderella, the ugly stepsisters actually cut off their toes in order to fit into the tiny shoe. Talk about painful. But we are just as guilty when it comes to those guys that will say mean things and put us through hell. We get rid of parts of ourselves, we change for them, we convince ourselves that if we grow our hair longer or if we wear better clothes then they will finally want us. They will finally love us. Sad story, too often the story line of many people in our lives, including our selves. Sometimes we just need to accept that we should not have to change in order to make a shoe fit, and we should not allow a shoe to hurt us. At the end of the night, it really isn’t all that fun trying to make the trek back to the apartment but being barely unable to move.

The shoes we grow out of

When we love something its simple. We love it. In terms of a person, we want to spend all of our time with them, we want them to know we care, we want them to know that our heart is reserved for them. There is nothing wrong with this. This is the heels that are actually comfortable, the great boots that we love to slip into after work, those flats that go with just about everything.

But shoes get tattered. They get torn. The soles wear out. Our feet grow.

I don’t think this is something that we really ever want to admit to ourselves, that we have moved on, especially when that pair of shoes have been so reliable in the past. We fall in love with people, we think that they are our everything. We are content and it feels amazing. But in a lot of cases we reach a point where we know that we need to move on, that there is more out there in the world and heart is just not ready to settle down.

Accepting this, well its never easy. We can meet someone that will show us the person that we want to be, will push us out of our comfort zone to do great and amazing things, but after a while we need to let go. We need to realize that some people are not meant to stay in our lives forever, they are meant to serve us for a small amount of time, fill the crevices and cracks in our hearts, and then move forward. It would be amazing if we could stay with them for a lifetime, but life is crazy like that. We end up wanting new shoes, ones that fit the person we have grown to be, ones that fit the person we want to become.

But this is not meant to discourage any one. Cinderella did fit into that glass slipper and she did live happily ever after. We all have a pair of soles of out there that are simply perfect for us. I think we just need to learn to never settle for the shoes that don’t fit, the shoes that hurt us too bad to even walk in them, and the shoes that we know need to be put back in the closet because they no longer fit. We all have that real fit out there. And I am sure if someone told the stories of the step sisters, what happened after Cinderella rode off into the sunset, I think we would find that they eventually found love too. They eventually found the shoes that fit their feet.