How do you measure happiness?

 

I recently had my annual wellness physical.  As a part of the exam, my doctor read off a checklist of mental health questions.  He was looking for signs of distress; statements suggesting depression, desire for self-harm, or suicide.

 “How are you feeling?”

 Thinking about my dance encounters over the last several weeks, I said:

 “Doc, I’ve been have moments of intense happiness.”

 He couldn’t find a place on his clipboard for my statement.

Sweet 16

 

Dateline:  June 6, 2023.  Sweet 16.

 Today marks the 16^th anniversary of my introduction to salsa.  A year and a half before, I lost Retta, my best friend, and wife of 15 years, to complications of Hepatitis C.  After mourning her loss for a year, I put my grief away and began to search for something to occupy my time. 

 Sometime later, I saw an ad in the paper for “Free salsa lessons at Ruta Maya.” 

 I thought, “Oh, good, I’ll try that.” 

 So I went on Wednesday, June 6, 2007, which was also D-Day. 

 Now, you must understand, that I had never heard of salsa as a dance.  It was completely foreign to me.  I thought I was going to a cooking class.  I walked in the door with a bag of chips under my arm, not knowing whether we were going to make red salsa or green salsa.  What I saw and heard and felt, with the pounding rhythms, the beautiful girls spinning and twirling, and the guys looking calm and confident, changed me forever. 

I vowed to myself: “I want THAT!” 

And here I am.

You

 You're too white, too black.  Too this, too that...

The cat.

 A couple of months ago, as I sat in my usual front-row seat at the One2One waiting for the timba band to start, a young lady in her early twenties walked past me diagonally on the way to the ladies' room. As she passed, I thought, "There goes a dancer.” She walked like a cat.

Later, we danced. From previous experience, I knew that U.T. dance majors go out on the town, hit random clubs, and dance whatever dance they find there. She was one of those. She could do anything I asked of her, flawlessly, the first time. Amazing.

As the song ended, I dropped my most difficult move on her, ending in a cuddle, which she followed perfectly, and then blew her out into a triple inside spin. She returned, hugged me with outstretched arms, and then walked out, not looking back.

She walked like a cat.

Oh, man...

 She: You must'a been really handsome when you were younger.

me: (le sigh)

Jaco

So, I walked into a crowded bar in downtown Jaco, Costa Rica (pronounced ha-Coh), a surfing town on the Pacific side. According to the Uber driver that picked us up from the airport in San Jose and drove us to Jaco, this is the place that Ticos (native Costa Ricans) go when they want to get wild and crazy. We stayed at the Green Iguana, a beach house located in the epicenter of both the beach and the town. I was there on a bachelor party with four wild men from the States. The bar, super crowded, was on the main drag in downtown Jaco. As I made the way through the masses, I felt a tug on my shirt sleeve. Thinking I might get lucky,

I turned to find a slender, dark-haired girl with purple highlights and dimples behind a big smile. She was about 35.

She: I had to talk to you. You have a good energy. Where are you from?

me: Austin.

She: I’m from Austin too!

me: What?!

She: Yeah, I live off South Lamar.

me: How nice, I’m off Slaughter Lane.

She: What’s your name?

me: Roberto. What’s yours?

She: mumble, mumble, mumble.

me: What?! I’ve never heard a name like that. Where are you from?

She: Turkey. It’s Turkish for dimples.

me: How nice. What are you doing in Jaco?

Dimples: I’m here with my husband. We’re breaking up.

me: What?! Your husband brought you here to Jaco, party central, to break up?

Dimples: Yeah. We've been married for fifteen years, we have two kids, and he cheated on me last fall. What do you think I should do?

me: Dump him. As a friend of mine says, make the bastard pay.

Dimples: I will. We spent last night together, deleting photos of us on both our phones. Then we had break-up sex. Do you want to meet my husband?

me: What?! Your husband is here?

Dimples: Yeah, he’s downstairs. Let me go get him.

She returned in a few minutes with a thirty-something American in tow.

Dimples: This is my husband Tom.

We shook hands, chatted for a few minutes, and they disappeared into the crowd.

We all just shrugged, and had another beer.

All about the women.

Salsa is all about the women. If women didn’t love salsa, no guy in the world would ever go through the Hell of salsa training. During several recent salsa scholastic episodes, my instructors have encouraged me to keep my feet moving. I plead guilty. When I’m dancing, I have a whirling dervish right in front of me. If I’m not careful, I’m going to eat an elbow, or worse.

I’ve watched numerous world-class salsa performances at Gonzo’s SalsaMania. While the woman executes some fabulous move, the guy doesn’t dance around; he just stands there and supports her, with his feet flat on the floor and his knees bent. Like a matador.

So, yeah, my feet stop moving occasionally, but it’s because I want to protect my partner.

Because salsa is all about the women.