I just got back from my first salsa lesson and whoooo weeee, what have I gotten myself into now?! Or, more specifically, what have Priscilla and Teresa (co-workers extraordinaire) gotten me into?! They convinced me that dance lessons would be fun over dinner one night, and after a few drinks, it sounded like a good time. Plus, we discussed it ages ago, and the fact that the classes were so far into the future appealed to my inner procrastinator. Salsa seemed harmless two months ago – I almost thought of it as something I could put off forever. Unfortunately, forever just arrived  and now I’m committed to dance for nine Tuesdays in a row. Yowza!

Okay, so there’s a few things that you should know about me before I continue with this entry:

1. I couldn’t find a beat if it did the Kevin Bacon warehouse dance from Footloose on my forehead.

2. I have the sensuality of a brick.

3. I have hairy knuckles.

4. I am excessively sweaty.

5. I ate out for dinner tonight – a burger with onions and cheese – which gave me bad breath AND gas.

6. I am the least coordinated person on earth.

7. I have social anxiety issues.

Given all of the above, salsa (I think we learned meringue tonight, actually, but I’m just going to call it salsa for simplicity’s sake) wasn’t TOO bad. First we learned to walk on the spot (which sounds easy, but I still managed to suck at it), and then we partnered off. We got to dance with the class helpers, as well as newbies like ourselves, and we switched it up every 5-10 minutes or so.

Salsa, if you’re a woman, is pretty easy. The guy leads (read: pushes you around), and you don’t really have to know anything (of course, this was my first lesson, so that may change). For example, I know if the guy raises his hand and pushes me to the left, he wants me to turn. Easy enough (although, to do it AND look good is another story. I look like a constipated robot but at least I’m turning in the right direction most of the time).

Picture me holding hands with strangers, hairy knuckles up, sweating and breathing onions on everyone, all the while trying not to fart, and freaking out because I was screwing up what essentially amounted to walking on the spot.  That kind of sums up salsa for me. It was akward, but I was laughing like a maniac on the inside, so it was kind of fun too.


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