Are You Living It?

I’m not certain that this post should serve as any sort of instructional manual, and if you happen to find yourself in a strikingly similar situation, then you have traveled far indeed my friend.

Picture yourself in Los Alamos, New Mexico. Imagine a small room with mirrors and wood floors. In it are the narrator, a beautiful Latina slasa instructor, two very tall people, and five Chinese scientists. How they got there is irrelevent.  What we do know is that they are about to begin a journey in Salsa dancing, in a dance studio known as, “the Twilight Zone.”

The trouble starts immediately. The ridiculously tall people eye the scientists nervously, relatively certain that they are here to steal our nuclear secrets, or something. The scientists are equally edgy, sizing up the incredibly tall people as if they are visitors from another planet with their elegant and ambiguous features, and tiny little ballet shoes. That both groups of beings are intent upon the domination of the Earth, or at least this little stretch of parkay flooring at the Los Alamos Public Library, is indisputable. I feel caught in the middle of something much greater than I: an interplanetary dance-off, perhaps? A man paces nervously outside the building, cigarette passing to and from his lips like a piston in a steam engine as he eyes the motley assortment inside.

Groups of leaders and followers are paired off, and my first drill goes well (as it should if practiced with a brunette that stands 6 feet in heels and puts Penelope Cruz to shame). The next routine signals a downward spiral that I may never recover from, as much because of its tragic imagery as from its thorough assault on the foundations of rhythm and grace. Suffice it to say that when the ludicrously tall “visitor” who served a my follower returns to his home planet, he will bring with him a message of acrimony and indescribable pity regarding the sentient inhabitants of the Earth. He will tell his leaders (perhaps his planet does not have leaders?) that our rock is one not worth invading; there is something in the water that makes us devolve… a galactic Superfund site, if you will.

The final pairing finds me shoulder to forehead with one of the five “smart people.” He makes his violent intentions known from the start when, on the basic three-count, he launches into a hop snap-kick that nearly shatters my tib-fib. As retaliation, I step on his toes and pull him in even closer, determined to make my own discomfort his and his acutely. I bank on the fact that the Mexican food I ate earlier is more overpowering than the jello he invaribaly ingested at the lab cafeteria. I twirled and passed this short man around for several minutes as he stomped and kicked at me like a crab throwing a temper tantrum. Finally, my private, adolescent Salsa-dancing fantasy fulfilled, we gratefully retired.

In other news: Tent Rocks is a must see if ever in the Santa Fe area. Striking and surreal sandstone formations have miraculously formed themselves around a BLM trail and have expressed their intent to entertain you for at least 2 hours.

That I knew the people watching me as I took a fantastic wipeout while riding alone on Porcupine Rim is not mere coincidence; this Friday marks one of the few remaining weekends of the spring that will feature hospitable temperatures for riding and camping. Everyone and their mother is here, and their dogs, and cousins, and dogs’ cousins. It numbs the embarrassment a tad to state that I was climbing the section, while they were descending. Good to see you, Trent!