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A little back story here. You see, the day of the Bachelorette Party of the Blackout of 2003 (which I have yet to write about, but, rest assured, will) my college roomies and I found ourselves in our old Gap. The Gap where, in college, we�d spent money we hadn�t earned to buy things we didn�t need to impress people we didn�t like. Something about the nostalgia of that era spurred us into doing it again. Add into the equation the fact that campus was deserted because classes hadn�t yet started and the place was so empty there weren�t people around to look at us funny when we tried on weird, uber-trendy fashion accessories, probably better lent itself to the fact that when I threw my future purchases on the counter, the hat was among them. Also, it did look pretty sassy, my friends talked me into it and I wanted to wear it that night.

So I found myself, nine days later, wearing the only clean outfit I had left in the closet. The one with the hat. Something felt right about slipping it into my purse. The outfit�tested in the dressing room hallway of the East Lansing Gap, and proven in a dimly lit Bennigan�s in Okemos�just didn�t look right without it.

The fact that this is LA notwithstanding, the hat was a little too pretentious for the Electric Lotus, and though probably not out of place, definitely not jelling with the swank d�cor of the Dresden. Although admittedly, if she�d swept her hair on top of her head and tried for the rough shape of my hat, Elayne�s hair probably would have looked better than the wig she had on. Of course, if she swapped hairpieces with Marty, the same effect might have been had. We�ll never know.

Unless we�re really, really lucky.

In any event, upon entry to the Vermont, scant blocks from the yummy blood and sand�s of the Dresden and Elayne�s bat-shit crazy ass, I knew that my hat had found it�s home. And so on it slipped, casually pulled from my favorite handbag and onto my head with only a slight adjustment to the pigtails beneath.

It had to have been the hat. Never mind the four or five drinks I�d had prior to entry or the fact that I�ll bust out my dancing moves just about anywhere�the hat made me do it. The hat made the outfit, the outfit made me, and so begat the dancing.

I believe it was Jessica who couldn�t stay off the dance floor once the Beastie Boys� Brass Monkey came on, who also dragged most of the rest of us out, except for Heather who fell into the phone and didn�t come out for an hour and a missing persons report, onto the dance floor. Normally, once I start cutting a rug, I can stop at any time, but something about that night�maybe the rocking DJ, and probably the hat�flicked on the Dancing switch in me and I. Got. Down.

I of course noticed when Miss Wanda Sykes came into the bar and sat down very near us, but being that I�ve been in LA long enough to pretend with everyone else not to care at all about celebrity proximity, I danced without a thought to being parodied on her show. I would have danced anyway, but I guess toward the end there, I was probably a bit spurred on by the cheers from Miss Wanda and her table of friends when Dr. No and I migrated from the dance floor closer to the bar, dancing all the way.

I had not danced that hard in a good long while, and it was a sweet release. A release I greatly needed. Dancing is a therapy to me that I rarely indulge in. And indulge I did. Completely. Blessedly. Finally. So I suppose I can thank my partner, Dr. No, or the instigation from Jessica, or the cheers from Wanda�but mostly, I�m going to thank my hat.

It was dancing I needed. And dancing I had.

�[After almost getting in a car accident] Lance Barton: Sontee, you okay? Sontee Jenkins: Yeah, I'm okay, Cisco, you okay? Cisco: Yeah, I'm okay, Wanda, you okay? Wanda: Hell no! I spilled my drink!� -- Down To Earth