As Latin as Victorian Cabinetry

que la vida es un carnaval!

Most trips down the road to Damascus begin with a groupon for salsa lessons. It is a fact that Tom and I can make Jesus cry with our love of the dance, but only so long as we score a deep discount vis-á-vis industrious online shopping very late at night.

At our first class, I received perhaps the finest left-handed compliment ever when our wiry instructor Oscar noted, "Even with all your weird little kicks, you still manage to stay on the beat." Tom on the other hand was turning regular DVDs into Bluerays with his grace and style. Oscar couldn't take his eyes off him. Tom is a star in Chelsea.

Taking the Salsa in our 'hood involves certain complexities namely there are no "gentlemen" and "ladies." There are "leaders" and "followers" and whenever the teacher bellows "Switch partners!" you have to scurry around trying to remember who is eligible for the job.

The salsa class demographic may vary. It's like you, me, some falafel vendor, two Jews, a kid from the Bronx, cowboys, Indians, a few south africans and Shakira in four inch beige wedgies. There's always one dude in a skinny tie and it flaps around like a giant germ swab.

I like to dance with Tom. He approaches the dance with a western tennis grip. I approach it with a lot of fiery arm circles. We have until the end of March to transform into triple threats, unless we can re-up our eight class package for the right price.