Improbable is a baffling word, as it ambidextrous in usage. I could probably link it to “fuck” in the way that it could be positive or negative, but that would be inappropriate. Still, improbable is the perfect word to describe the rebirth of Salsa Club. I claim a decent stake in our success because I was the only one willing to throw shame out the door for the sake of the movement. Granted, I have little shame to begin with, but my excessive promotion gave us an edge. An edge that inadvertantly gave me a cold that I’m still battling.
Why am I not bitter that I’ve gotten sick? Simply put, the magnitude of this triumph is beyond my comprehension. We packed the school’s bar 200 people deep…and I’ve been on teaching/motivation duty for the last week. Literally, today is my first day without dance in a week, which is oddly scary. If I didn’t have tacos and wrestling, well, I’d probably be dragged to the floor somewhere. So, this teaching has left me in an unlikely position: popular beyond reproach. I’ve come full circle, actually; one of the benefits CSULB gave me was the ability to blend into a crowd and not become the center of attention. Funny how history has a way of showing a person’s true colors. I have salsa’d my way to reverence among the classes; I am responsible for teaching salsa to around 300 people, who refer to me as “Salsa Dude” when I am in public.
Teaching, teaching…yes. I’m good there, but better at motivation. During our first meeting…which was extremely packed, our instructor ran late. I was given the microphone and told to boost morale. Yes, yes I did. Extemporaneous speaking could be my calling, as I felt my asshole side emerge. Freaking awesome…I’m freaking awesome. Sure enough, I got everyone jumping up and down and eating from my sleeved palms. I guess I can pull rank when I did teach everyone their first basic steps. My job was primarily administrative, bouncing where needed. Yet, later on in the night, I got what I came for…or rather, what I got came to me.
There was one particular girl that I danced with last Friday who caught my eye. The chemistry was instantaneous, the feeling remarkable. I invited her to salsa, and I thought she was going to pass; she came late. And when she did, I whisked her to the floor and proceeded to implement the perfect form of Basic Offense: total, unrelenting cheeseball romance prose. We kept talking until she let a bomb drop: she doesn’t dance often. Two seconds later, I locked her in a dip and asked her out on a date the following night.
She accepted, and Cafe Sevilla it was…because The Reef closed down.
She held on to me the whole night and declined to leave my side. There was a complete invasion of personal space on both sides, and neither of us minded. It was, dare I say, magic? Magic. Definitely magic. She tried to dance me off the floor, but I kicked on the afterburner and wore her down. Really, someone wants to run me out the gym? Not a chance. I took her home, and well…I was about to pander in whis…no, this isn’t a Great Gatsby moment. She said she doesn’t kiss on first dates, but there was a long, tight embrace to close the evening. Also, I pointed out that I thought her policy was cool, except for the fact that I had a counterplan:
Our second date is Tuesday night under the stars in downtown Long Beach. More salsa, more connecting, and most of all…I think I just might smile. Yes…smiling is nice. So is Victoria. Skibbedebebop. Much later.
Current Track – Coldplay “Lovers in Japan”