Last night after a grueling first ever softball practice, I impulsively pulled off the freeway at University Ave, parked my car, reapplied my lig gloss and deoderant, grabbed my standby shoes out of the trunk, and made my way into the Pasta Bar. Upon first glance the situation lacked promise; Javier was not there, and women outnumbered men by a dozen. Not to be dissueded, I sat down at a table of gussied up gals, and strapped on my shoes.
I stayed about an hour and got in 3 great tandas, including one milonga set with Mike. What a way to jump back in! At first I felt like I suddenly had forgotten all the steps, how to follow, how to listen...but soon I was falling back on my body's own memory, and the things/feet began to fall into place. Relax.
DL pulled me out for a set. I guess that ice is now broken. That's good. But I can't help but think of the recent essay I read on men and homosocial behavior in tango...the woman taking on the role of the male genitalia in a contest of manly display of power. The way he pushed me, dizzied me with non-stop molinetes and turns, it was an act of aggression. I was left exhausted, disoriented, heaving. Fun? Not so much. Not given the circumstances.
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