There, cold-sweating my way up the single-file line of dresses the price of my once in a blue moon dinner bill, I stand riding my skirt up my legs just enough to be revealing, but not enough to look desperate. Every time I’ve experienced this exact moment, without fail, I ask myself “Am I the only one who feels out of place?” After a painful $30 cash cover-charge, I’ll wind up haunting the club floor to not-that-popular pop hits and wondering why anyone in this room goes out if it’s just to...