He and I met at the Residence Halls, aka the dorms, over a decade ago, when we were Resident Services Assistants, aka Front Desk Workers. Through the magic of Facebook, we've stayed in touch.
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| 6-14-03 |
I want to say I was the first one to contact him after having added each other as "Friends" on the social media network. I saw an awesome picture he posted of a narrow hiking trail on top of a mountain and I immediately wanted to be there. So I messaged him asking for the location. I think he said it was in the San Gabriel mountains but I have yet to explore it.
Mr. Tam, a fellow Pisces, finally contacted me last year to make the hiking thing happen. I will admit, it was a little awkward. I had not hung out with him since 2003 and I had no idea if we'd have anything to talk about other than our college years. But it was cool. Mr. Tam was an experienced hiker, runner, and talker. We didn't hit up the trail in his picture, per se, but the hike up to Inspiration Point in Pasadena in the middle of July did kick our asses #hikingfail.
And now, another year later, I received a text from Mr. Tam asking when our next hiking adventure was going to be. Traumatized from the last hike together, we decided to postpone our outing to October. So he invited me to go dancing instead.
Mr. Tam has been dancing salsa for about a year now. He has salsa buddies and dancing shoes which made me nervous. I've taken three lesson in three months and all I learned was to follow the man's lead. I suck at it but I like to dance and want to continue to get better. So I straightened my hair, coated my eyelids with blue eye shadow, threw on a dress, strappy shoes, and off I went with my chanclas in my hand.
I felt relieved to have bumped into Mr. Tam in the parking lot; it beat showing up to the club alone. I was pulling in as he was exiting his car. I literally braked, made sure it was him, and immediately parked so we could walk together. He carried his dancing shoes in a bag, the bag they came in, directly from the dancing shoe store, and he scolded me for walking on the cement with mine already on my feet. But I explained that they weren't real dancing shoes, just a bargain I'd found at DSW.
Seven dollars later, we were inside the magical salsa dancing place. We set our stuff on a table and lined up with the other folks on the dance floor because the lesson had already started. As we watched the instructor, I noticed a familiar face standing next to me. It took me a second to identify where I knew the woman from but as soon as she turned to look at me too it was obvious. She was a school mom. I taught her kid a couple of years ago. Can you say awkward? We acknowledged each other with a surprised look and a phony smile and pretended not to know each other the rest of the night. It was better that way.
For those of you who have never taken a lesson, I'm your guinea pig. The ladies are asked to stand in a line and the men are told to stand directly in front of them. Depending on the instructor, either the females or males have to rotate every couple of minutes so we can have multiple chances of practicing with different partners. Even those who show up with a significant other get in on the act. It's supposed to be fun--you see your lover in the hands of someone else for an hour and it makes you want them more. By the time the lesson is over, your desire for them is so great that you take it out on the dance floor. At least that's how I picture it. But what the hell do I know.
Anyway, it was during one of these rotations that I came across a guy in a red t-shirt. He was shorter than me, wearing large black frames, with a hint of baldness in the back of his head. As we finished up the first step, he told me to "move my hips" and "shake what my momma gave me." Um, yeah, I'll move my hips and shake my money maker when I deem the opposite sex worthy of my goods, thank you very much. He complimented my dress and told me that if it weren't for my heels, we'd be the same height. NEXT!
I had already eyed the guy who came after. He was wearing a fedora and anyone who wears a hat, in my opinion, exudes a certain level of confidence worthy of my attention. He was a good dancer, a good leader, and I hoped he'd ask me to dance later that night. But he never did. He spent the entire night with the school mom's friend. Really? She was way older and probably had five kids. Whatever. I didn't sweat it. Maybe it's the latest trend.
The lesson was over after the longest hour and everyone scurried to the tables they had reserved with purses, water bottles, and phones. That was one thing I liked about the club: there was an abundance of tables where you could leave your stuff, get up and dance, and your belongings would still be there when you sat down again. Everyone there had but one purpose: to dance. They were not interested in anyone else's iPhone sitting on a table. That was pretty awesome.
Mr. Tam and I grabbed drinks and before I got a chance to sit and enjoy a full sip of my strawberry daiquiri, Sal tapped my shoulder and just like that, I was on my way to the dance floor. I had already "tested him out" during the lesson. His strong jaw had reminded him of my uncle, a deal breaker of sorts when looking for a mate. He asked my name, I told him, and then he shortened it to Mari. I said, "No, I don't like that." I guess I know why he never asked me out again. It probably had nothing to do with the fact that I was a terrible dancer. But I didn't want to dance with my uncle all night anyway so it worked out.
Mr. Tam was surprised that I had already been asked to dance twice before he even got out there. He took me out and I sucked even more. He has nine months of experience over me, though; that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. When we sat, ladies were fanning themselves after breaking a sweat and Mr. Tam busted out with his fan too. I'm telling you, this salsa club is damn serious about dancing. No one was hanging out at the bar like at the regular clubs and most of the drinks on the table were water bottles.
And that's how the rest of the night played out. Tap tap tap on the shoulder and off I went. I will say that the Asian men were the most patient with me, compared to what Mr. Tam referred to as "my kind." According to him, Asian men love Latinas, which is why they take up salsa. The few men of "my kind" who asked me to dance once never took me out again. One of them saw how hard I was struggling and suggested we dance the song cumbia-style. I appreciated it but I knew he was bummed that he couldn't pull his best moves. The Asian men, on the other hand, didn't mind my two left feet; they kept coming back for seconds and thirds. A very tall and lean Asian gentleman took me out when a merengue song was playing and he made me feel like a ballerina. He held me close, invaded my personal space even, but he was so easy to follow that I just went with it. He asked to continue with a bachata number where he changed up the steps depending on the musical notes. I admired that because I too change my moves depending on the beat of a song that I like. It was funny when he asked me to "bend my legs" during a toned-down version of the grinding move; he was so polite and elegant, though, that I told myself not to get grossed out. A different older gentleman took me out for bachata too. He was the first one who spun me around without losing me. I appreciated that very much. I thought I caught a whiff of cucumber in his cologne but Mr. Tam said it was probably just his sweat. The last good dance was with Mr. Tam himself, God bless his heart. After trying to show off his intermediate/advanced skills earlier, he kept it basic for my sake. I was able to follow more or less but it was mostly honest fun.
Mr. Tam and I caught breaks here and there. By midnight, my feet were officially in pain. I watched people dance very well and became a little jealous. I noticed that some females were wearing jeans and I told Mr. Tam that I almost did too. He said I could have but was glad that I wore a dress because it was more elegant. He also pointed out that I looked slimmer and then, just in case he hadn't noticed, I told him my hair was three times longer than it was the last time I had seen him.
For my toes' sake, I declined every other tap tap tap towards the end of the night. The pain miraculously went away, though, when I hit the dance floor, only to be reminded of it when I walked back to the table. As I enviously watched women make men's dancing dreams come true, I couldn't help to want hand sanitizer. I didn't know how many men I had danced with but even if it had been only one the entire night, hands got sweaty. But I shook off the thought and continued people watching.
By 12:30am, a lot of people had already left. I wasn't sleepy but my feet and legs were. A while later I asked Mr. Tam to walk me to my car and he suggested hitting up King Taco. It was the greatest idea ever! I really loved salsa dancing then.
I drove closely behind Mr. Tam, trying not to get caught up in a red light, to the greatest midnight snack invention, King Taco, and changed into my chanclas immediately. That's when I noticed that not only had my shoes messed up my toes but cut my foot as well. My sandal strap rubbed perfectly against the wound which was the only reason I even noticed it. So I stepped funny into the restaurant, ordered two sopes and horchata, and washed my hands vigorously as I waited for my order.
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| Ouch. |
Mr. Tam and I chatted like the good old friends we are as we recuperated the calories we had lost. Then he guided me to the freeway after making sure plans for a hiking trip were set for next month. I wonder where we'll go eat then.
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