why WOULD anyone want to wear shoes of glass?

While engaging in intercourse this morning this is the thought, an analogy of my sex life, that ran through my head:

I am Cinderella and I embody the classic folk tale myth-element of unjust oppression/triumphant reward of the same name. I was once a young woman living in unfortunate circumstances which suddenly changed to remarkable fortune. The word "cinderella" has, by analogy, has come to mean one who unexpectedly achieves recognition or success after a period of obscurity and neglect.  That’s me.

Often I felt, while sitting in my pile of cinders, that I was destined to never get an  invitation, while others gleefully planned their wardrobes. Although I have often dutifully assisted others and dreamed of going to the dance, they taunted me by saying a woman like me could never attend a ball.  Even my paramours seemed to echo that same sentiment.

I have long cried in despair.  I have wept buckets of tears onto the graves of the people I have truly loved waiting for a wishing tree to grow.  Magically after all my despair my lucky stars, my wishing tree, the spirits of the ones I have loved or my fairy godmother turned a pumpkin into a coach, mice into horses, a rat into a coachman, and lizards into footmen. My usual mourning rags were transformed into a beautiful gown, complete with a delicate pair of glass slippers.

I was even inadvertently and accidentally invited to the ball (pun intended), the entire court was entranced by my presence, especially the Prince, who has never truly left my side. Unrecognized by most anyone, I managed to leave before midnight, rather surrepetitiously in the darkness of the night. Back home, I graciously thanked my lucky star, the wishing tree and the spirits of the ones I truly loved for that single opportunity.

When another ball was held , I managed again to attend. The Prince became even more entranced. However, that one evening, one Hallowe’en night, I lost track of time and left only at the final stroke of midnight, losing one of my glass slippers on the steps of the palace in my haste. The Prince wouldn’t let the incident go and vowed, with the stupid glass slipper in hand, to find me and make me his own (more or less, there’s a bit of artistic liscence involved).

Many other tried in vain to convince the Prince that the glass slipper I left behind would fit their feet. Some even went to the extremity of  trying to trick the Prince by cutting off parts of their feet in order to get the slipper to fit.  They talked about me; some believing I was the luckiest of all to catch the Prince’s attention while other’s believed I had no right to the Prince or the throne or any damn thing. 

The thing is though….. that once upon a time I wished that I could know what it would be like to be Cinderella, to be the Belle of the Ball, to  have an updo or a french twist and a beautiful gown and my own pair of glass slippers.  The glass slippers are extrmely problematic, something I never considered before I had to dance in them.  It takes but a moment for the glass slippers to shatter around my feet, making it painful to walk, never mind dance.  As hard as I try I can’t seem to get the hang of wearing glass and I find myself unable to dance even the most simple of minuets.  I can barely slip my feet into the darn things before the figurative dance is over because the glass is so fragile.

I really wish I had wondered what it would be like to dance in glass slippers rather than wonder what being the Belle of the Ball was like.  There’s a certain freedom to being the cinderslut, the dressing in rags and committing to a life of servitude.  There’s a certain captivity, imprisonment, confinement, restraint in being all dressed up and yet unable to take a single step without fear of  the moment shattered into a million pieces.

I don’t like remarkable fortune, in fact I find it frustrating in a way that words will not convey.  I don’t really like the recognition or success that is assumed when you’re with the Prince.  It’s just not all it’s cracked up to be but the shoes…. They’re cracked up, that’s for damn sure.