Salsa suuuucked today. I couldn’t seem to get anything down, and I felt even more robotic and moronic than usual. The instructors had to break the steps down for me about a thousand times, and when I left, I still hadn’t grasped the concept of stepping to the back with one leg, crossing the other leg in front of me, and then stepping so that my feet were together again. It is literally three steps – back, cross, step – but for the life of me, I could not get it.
There’s this guy in my glass, Gerry, who is terrible at salsa – absolutely horrible. He’s a little balding man who looks like George from Seinfeld, only more awkward and less sociable. He’s like, the salsa mascot for Priscilla and I. We always speculate as to whether he’s going to be in the next class, if he’ll talk to or dance with us, what he’s going to do, which one of us he has a crush on, etc. etc. In short, Gerry’s kind of an inside joke.
The thing is, though, I adore Gerry and I absolutely love dancing with him because he always needs to break the steps down sloooowly, he never keeps a beat, and I never feel like an idiot when I partner with him. Gerry is the male version of ME, and I love him for it. Unfortunately, the fact that I AM Gerry has never been as apparent as it was tonight, and when I left, I felt more than a little sorry for myself.