Glass slippers don’t fit
the dreams of Cinderella;
red stilettos do.
You’re probably wondering who I am and why I started a blog called Ruby Red Stilettos. First let me tell you about myself. I’m an obsessive-compulsive, scatterbrained writer, foodie, certified personal trainer, makeup seller, gluten-free cook and last but not least, graduate journalism student. I may seem to have many talents. But really, I’m just a confused 23-year-old looking for my big break, searching for meaning, purpose and quarters to do my laundry. Join me as I report on the fun and fabulous things, people, trends and events I witness, as well as my musings and mishaps. Hopefully, you’ll have a few good laughs.
Now, without further ado, here’s why I chose the name Ruby Red Stilettos…
My student loan debt from college and grad school is pretty close to the number of Joan Rivers’ cosmetic surgeries. So, I can barely afford to spend money on much of anything, let alone fancy, expensive shoes. I do, however, have this one pair of red stilettos I bought for $60 at DSW on my 21st birthday. They remind me of Dorothy’s Ruby Slippers sans the glitter. How appropriate. On my way to restaurant reviews and interviews in Manhattan, I always get lost while reading the map on my BlackBerry, wishing a click of my heels could transport me back to Grand Central. But I don’t want to pay for transportation; I use my legs. You could only imagine what happens when I decide to hail a taxi. Picture it: as I watch the Jimmy Choo-clad catwalkers hop into the first cab they see, my heel gets stuck in a metal subway grate, then my foot slides out of the shoe and into a puddle of garbage juice. Why do I always feel like the klutzy underdog in a tween comedy?
Even with one leg about a centimeter shorter than the other, I have trained myself to run in these shoes, sometimes in the rain to catch my train back to Connecticut, and other times, on cracked sidewalks and up hills—in serious pain. You can hear me coming from a mile away, the hollow clock-clock heel sound against the pavement.
These slightly scuffed, toe-squashing, three-and-a-half-inch cockroach killers (as my mother jokes), have become my trademark. They symbolize my uniqueness, my fiery Sicilian temper and my feminine pride. They shield me from the short-girl complex, too. Despite the amoeba-like blisters these pumps have left on my feet, I’ll never throw them away.
I may walk down some crazy, twisted paths in life, but at least I’ll be wearing my favorite shoes.