Of Dances That Sound Like Sauces

Every-tiny-bit-of-me-hurts.

Dramatic statement, isn't it? Well, it's true. Turns out that twenty three is actually not the full bloom of youth, as I'd imagined it to be, but the beginning of dotage. How else does one explain the fact that my attempt to learn how to dance turns me into eighty year old Ms. Creaky-Bones every weekend?

What I realized yesterday is that walking is actually a very complicated exercise which involves a complicated co-ordination between very many bodily systems. It's funny how one doesn't appreciate the wonder of bipedal movement till one is reduced to wincing with pain at every step.

Also, I am rather confused as to whether I can dance at all. It's strange. I feel like I have two left feet when I'm dancing, but when I watch the others, I tell myself that I can't be that bad. So is a good dancer defined as a good dancer, or one who is not as bad as the other bad dancers?

At the end of all the pontification and the grunts of pain, I'm forced to conclude that there are two kinds of people in this world, or atleast in the dance classes of the world: those whose grace and fluidity makes them look like they were born to salsa, and those who must resign themselves to dipping their french fries in salsa sauce and watching.