Dance, not Dance Dance
Most people know I love me some Dance Dance, but surprisingly (or not), I don’t like to just Dance. Somehow, after I had a few beers at Mike’s farewell thing last week, Sally convinced me to go to a beginner Salsa class last night.
I’m awkward. Really. That I have all my fingers and toes in tact, and have never broken a bone is amazing. Anyhow, dancing stresses me out in a huge way. I have no idea what I’m doing, and every time I find myself in a position where I must dance (it happens), I count the minutes until I get to leave.
I’d rather this not be the case. I don’t want to freestyle in center of a circle of sweaty but good looking thugs, but it would be nice to be able to at least enjoy myself in this pleasure sport. So I really didn’t want to go last night but I figured, hey, it might be good for me.
So I counted the minutes until I got to leave. It was a beginner class, but the instructors just kept on saying things like “Just do it like this” and “Can you feel the Latin Heat?” and “You need to take on the Cuban Motion.”
Peppers? Cuban B? What? Okay. Are these people batshit or am I missing something? I feeling my jewish movement coming on, so I should go.