One calf was definitely bigger than the other. And not by just a little, oh no, they were like awkwardly mismatched twins that could never share clothing. This made buying boots hard. They zipped right over the skinny calf but when she got to the left boot her leg bulged and turned pink, her skin nearly caught in the zipper, and there was just no hope. She wondered how fat people wore boots, but immediately felt guilty for thinking it and scolded herself for not being PC, (all while still reaching the conclusion that they probably didn't). It wasn't so much that she was on a mission to find the perfect pair of boots, more that she and her best friend were supposed to go dancing that weekend. The plan was to shake their little butts and rock their little town until it didn't know which way was which and, she admitted to herself, men just don't drool at girls in sneakers. Sitting there on the department store couch with one boot on, greasy hair and a sinus infection, she wasn't sure she could effectively rock anything. The man helping her was named Gabriel, and when she wasn't staring at his prematurely-receding hair line, she watched the shoppers around her. Sensible shoes. They were all buying sensible shoes. Okay, well, (she watched a woman with ballooning pants try on wooden heels that allowed her only to tiptoe and practically had a "sluts-only" sign on them), not all of them were being sensible, but most of them were. More sensible than knee-high boots that wouldn't zip, anyway. She stared dejectedly at her worn, stretched, stained, agreeable tennis shoes. Gabriel noticed. "These do have heels, you know. They're never going to feel like those." She gave him a tight-lipped smile. Thanks for the reminder. Eight pairs of shoes and one leather-stretching device later, she was driving home with the windshield wipers squeaking like someone steadily and obnoxiously chewing gum in the passenger's seat.

The club was small, and they had gotten there too early. There were three raised stages and two tables like mini-boxing rings were raised even higher, all of which were for dancing. A group of slightly-audacious girls had taken the left-hand and were half-dancing, half-bouncing in a circle for their own amusement. A larger circle of boys encompassed them. The tables would first be considered by someone who had lost their inhibitions in a poorly-mixed drink, many hours later. Gina looked at her. She looked meaningfully back. She had spent forty five minutes in a posh shoe store, put on more makeup than she would like to call attention to, doped herself up on DayQuil and squeezed into boots that left her feet constantly arched - she was going to dance, damnit. She and Gina stepped delicately onto the middle floor, their boots clicking softly, and walked straight to the center. Back to back, they stood there, waiting to be noticed, no planning necessary. She put one foot out, her knee at an angle. Despite her uncomfortable and slightly drugged state, she felt confident. She knew exactly what her presence was saying. Boots: stylish, appropriately closed-toe indicating out for a good time, but not easy. Nondescript black pants with a slight flare: sleek not baring it all, keeping some mystery. Tight, red halter top: keeping no mystery, asking for attention. Black, dangling earrings: a present from her last decent boyfriend; she liked them, regardless of what they may or may not be saying, and they made a nice swishing sound. Hair down, framing a smiling face: patient, willing to wait all night because you know you want to watch, go ahead, put your drink down, this is worth it. Fact that they were standing there in the center of the room, waiting for all eyes to be fixed in that direction: confident, knowing exactly what her presence is saying.

Oh, men are so easy. The girls were watching too because the men they had been trying to hook had all shifted their attention and, frankly, they had nothing else to do. The circle reformed and the music continued to blare, with the DJ oblivious to their little stunt. Without even attempting to speak to each other, she and Gina both moved out onto the floor. They moved, they spun, they danced to the music. Sometimes they met in the middle so that onlookers didn't have to keep turning their heads, and to add a new element to two women alone together on a dance floor. Their talent was undeniable and together they made quite a dangerous team. Anatomical opposites, they knew that at least one thing on the floor appealed to every male there. By every definition of the word, this was a success. Oh, men are so easy.

They stopped when they were tired, simultaneously, but without warning as far as the audience could tell. It was clear everyone had enjoyed the show from the way they watched the girls walk off the stage and they way they lingered, wondering if there was more. Later, once some drunken girls had made the tables part of the night's fun, she and Gina tried one of those too, but their fame had already ended. They had had their ten minutes, and would save the last five for a rainy day.

The rest of the night was less than stimulating, if now downright annoying. She spent most of their time being groped by overbearing, sexually-dominant men who pestered her, disturbed her, and sometimes even scared her. After prying the umpteenth pair of fingers from her torso (or butt or thighs), she decided it was definitely time to go. Gina, who appeared to be having the same luck, agreed. They tumbled out onto the street, unmissed, with throbbing feet and a subtle lack of respect for anyone they had encountered throughout the night. Only now, given the chance to relax and breathe properly, did she realize that she desperately needed to blow her nose. Time for another DayQuil! Or, well, no. The night was over, and she was ready for it to be tomorrow. The current drug of choice was certainly NyQuil, not that she needed the help falling asleep.

In the morning she opened her eyes, blinked a bit, and saw her feet sticking out from under the blanket. Socks? She wiggled her big toes from inside their thick cotton socks. I put socks on last night? She blinked some more, and admitted to herself that putting on socks was probably only one of many things she did not remember. She curled her feet up under her blanket and attempted to dredge up some memories from the night before. There had been....well, very poor lighting, for one. Oh, and that little stunt she and Gina pulled. And the groping. Eiw. The groping. She felt slightly dirty, and wondered if she remembered to shower last night too. Touching her face, she concluded that the answer was "doubtful" - she still had several layers of cracking makeup on. Wiggling her toes some more, she was reminded that her feet hurt. Damn those boots.

Eventually she rolled out of bed and into the shower. Man, it felt good to wash her face. By the end of the shower she was smiling to herself and had starting humming the one pop song she felt she could do justice to.

Standing in her towel before a foggy mirror, she checked her watch for the first time. It told her she had a date in 45 minutes with that nice Jewish boy from work, the one she was deciding if she really liked or not. She mused to herself that he had most likely never gone to a club to grope anyone, and probably never would, thank God. Back in her room she dropped the towel, kicked her unzipped boots into the closet, shoved last night's make up into a drawer, and began to dress. Last night had been fun, hadn't it? Well, of course it had. She was the one pushing the idea. If only those guys hadn't there. As she pulled on her socks, she had to laugh. But what's clubbing without the guys? For her, it may as well be just dancing around her room in underwear, belting out Madonna. So that was the verdict, then. Dancing had been fun but, as it turned out, she preferred to do it alone with no drunken jocks to get in her way. She kicked her black pants and halter top aside to get to her tennis shoes. Five minutes later, with her hair in a loose pony tail and chapstick and DayQuil in her pocket, she was ready for her date. They were going on a picnic, and it had been his idea. How wonderful. Sure, it had been fun to be a hot skank for a night, but she knew that this outing, which promised nothing more than good conversation in comfortable shoes, was going to be the highlight of her week.

Eventually she rolled out of bed and into the shower. After about ten minutes of letting the warm water hit the back of her neck and shoulders, she was finally ready to begin her day. And what better way to start it than with facewash? Man, it felt good to wash her face. She continued running the previous night through her mind. Taking the dance floor with Gina had offered so much freedom. Sure, the men drooling at every shake of her hips (among other things) had given her ego the boost it was looking for, but it was also really the only time all night that she danced entirely in her own style. Next came shampoo. Shampoo is usually not worth mentioning, except this shampoo, for one reason: it tingled. Whatever it was - menthol, oxygen bubbles, extract from some rare plant grown with hydroponics and soil from western Africa - whatever it was, it tingled, and it felt great. She suggested to herself, and quickly agreed, that maybe dancing with a man's grip on her hips (among other things) was awfully constricting.

Stopping mid-tingle, she put one foot out, her knee at an angle, and struck a pose. What had she done next? It was something sortof going like, yes, like this. Just as she had at the club, but with a head full of tingly shampoo instead of last night's leather boots and sex appeal, she began to dance to the steady bass beat she always carried in the back of her mind. Realizing that she probably looked like an idiot, dancing naked in a slippery shower with soap running into her eyes and no music, she decided she must remedy that. She shut her eyes and began to sing. This had to be the best shower of her week. She grabbed her conditioner as a mic, and worked in some salsa moves. Why had she thought she had to pay fifteen bucks to get into a dim club to have this much fun? She could pull any move in the shower - salsa to punk music, snap her fingers like a hippie and be as dirty or prude as she wanted. She leaned back to let the warm water wash the tingling out of her hair, concluded that a shower is much less constricting than a man, and shook what she had to give.