The next time I get the urge to go salsa dancing can someone please remind me that I don’t actually like salsa dancing? It’s true. I spend the majority of the lesson bored out of my mind (forward and together, back and together, forward and together, back and together) and when the “real” dancing starts, I get all stressed about who’s going to ask me to join them on the dance floor.
This is because the men who frequent Brasil’s in Old City fall into two categories: there are the well-meaning white boys who spend the whole time mouthing “forward and together, back and together” in an attempt to keep time and then there are the sketchy salsa aficionados who skip the lesson, roll in around 10:30 to select their first victims and spend the rest of the night flinging their hapless partners around the dance floor with little concern for their skill or lack thereof.
I’ve survived my fair share of flinging, and I usually end up accidentally elbowing these partners in the head, which only goes to reinforce my Amazon woman inferiority complex. (Thank you, by the way, to everyone who participated in yesterday’s poll. The Carlos Santanas won with 52.17% of your votes but considering that the majority of your comments favored the cherry red Cuban heels, I made an executive decision and went with the latter. I promise to rock out the Santanas soon though, preferably on a night when I’m not performing the next day and therefore don’t care if I end up with a sprained ankle.)
Anyway, as I was saying: after years of being flung about the dance floor, I’ve come to prefer the well-meaning white boys; at least they know their limits, and last night’s date was most obliging in this regard. He was better than most in that he actually remembered both of the turns we learned during the lesson and even led me through a “new move” he’d picked up somewhere along the way. Nonetheless, I was ready to go by 11:00, which is rather lame considering that I’m always ready to leave Brasil’s at 11:00.
For whatever reason, I lose my mind whenever I stumble across a boy who’s willing to go dancing on a first date. (Dancing? Really? Awesome! I know this great place! It’s called Brasil’s! I love Brasil’s! Woohoo! I’m going salsa dancing!!!) I forget that I don’t actually like salsa dancing and that I’d rather be getting jiggy with it at the hip hop club beneath Brasil’s than attempting to reclaim my Latin heritage.
C’est la vie.
Oh. Wait. You wanted to hear about the boy? The well-meaning white boy who drove all the way from Bucks County to take me to dinner and then accompany me to Brasil’s? Well I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until tomorrow for that report because I really do have a show this afternoon and I should probably finish choreographing my solo at some point between now and then.