On Friday night I went Salsa dancing. Yeah, that’s right I went dancing and I’m not talking about my attempts to do the robot worm which is now custom for Improv. In case you’re trying to picture my dancing it looked . . . kind of . . . well . . . have you ever seen a drunken baby? Funny story actually involving my niece and a flask I left open. Anyway, I had about as much coordination as that.
You may also be wondering why I went dancing and that my friend is where the plot thickens; largely because I added roux. As is tradition, after improv a mess of us went out to eat at Scotty’s. Whilst there, some of our female cohorts were able to seduce the waiter and learn that after his shift he was going to Harry’s (No, most places are not named after people.) The girls were going to go and meet him and I was going to go because seriously, the evening was going to be classic – I was right just in the wrong way.
The waiter failed to show or we failed to see him. In any case, the bar scene wasn’t really the niche of any of the people there. Instead of going to our respective homes we decided to go elsewhere, they just didn’t tell me that elsewhere involved not having two left feet.
A variety of people attempted to teach me how to Salsa dance and as a result a variety of people got their toes stepped on. I now know how to step forward with my left foot and then step back with my right foot once the left returns to its original position. In theory I know how to do other things too but I am not really sure how to implement them largely because I have no rhythm. “Feel the beat” is what the say. Sadly, I felt nothing, and I’m not just referring to how I’m an emotionless void.
While I was a poor dancer there were many who were absolutely astounding. I usually consider chivalry to be the best aphrodisiac, and this may still be true. But dancing, well, that will certainly make you the best lover ever . . . unless of course you’re a square dancer.