One week. A seven-day orientation into the pit of torture.
That wasn’t long enough to master walking in stilettos, let alone to learn to “dance” in them.
And I don’t mean wiggle your derriere and toss bits of your costume into the crowd kind of dancing. Half of the moves these girls performed, I would never be able to perfect in flat shoes with months of practice. If anything, I had to give them that.
All I had to do was get through that eight minutes. That was my only goal for the night. One dance at a time.
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