MexiCanadian

There is a very specific reason this post will not be accompanied by a photo: shame. Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words, other times it’s just more evidence of my terrifying lack of rhythm, coordination, and grace.

A few weekends ago, during a trip to Oaxaca City, I went to a salsa club with my travel mates Tiff and Marie. And the unthinkable happened: somebody actually asked me to dance. He was well-dressed and good-looking, and I turned into a giggling 13-year-old girl, while bashfully insisting I had no idea how to salsa and that he’d have to teach me. He said he was up to the challenge…poor guy. 

I spent the next five minutes looking at my feet, steeping on his feet, and wildly jerking my hips around trying to keep the beat. At the end, he thanked me for the awkward Jr. High dance and returned to his group of friends. I sat back down with Tiffany and Marie and tried to assess what I’d done so horribly wrong and I came this conclusion that there are two reasons why I will never be able to dance with a partner. 

1) I don’t like it when boys tell me what to do. 

2) My usual style of dancing usually involves throwing my limbs around so violently that it’s actually kind of a safety hazard to stand close to me.

Miguel, if you’re out there, I’m really, really sorry about the size 8 converse prints on your nice leather shoes. Thank you for the salsa lesson, and please call me if you ever want to learn the bird dance or the electric slide. Drinks are on me.