I’m watching the tango dancers at milongas in Buenos Aires and I’m literally drooling. Just before my mother’s sudden shift into major dependency, I was really getting into the tango — for all of the reasons why all those others love that dance.
I think about all of my former dance cronies back in Albany who are probably taping the show because they’re out dancing. Thursday night was always a good dance night. I wonder if my ol’ dance partner is still out there, devotedly taking lessons, dancing every chance he gets.
I google around to see if there are any places near here to take some lessons and brush up — meet new people. There’s one — a little more than a half hour away in Newburgh. The only daytime private lessons are on Sunday. I could do that — make Sunday afternoon, twice a month, my time to dance.
I’ve sent the studio an email to see what the possibilities are.
If I don’t do something soon to get both my body and mind back in shape, I’m going to irretrievably lose them both.
My mother, who wants me just about glued to her side all of the time, keeps asking when she and i can go out dancing. I’m sure that she’ll think that she should go with me to the lessons, should I sign up for some. She thinks we’re best friends. Oh man, is she ever delusional about that!
I’ve got to get away. Get away. Get away.
Dance away. Dance away. Dance away.