Vicky's Salsa Merengue Latin Party night

Vicky's salsa party was fun.

But this story has two stories within itself.

First part, (and I say this with full respect for women) there were two smokin' hotties at the party. Vicky dragged me right over to where they were standing. I talked to them for a bit. They have only been in Qatar for two weeks. One of them has already checked out the price of tickets to get back home. We started dancing. I danced with one of them. I didn't get any numbers, but I am sure I will see them around. Doha is a small place. I was also very tired from events of the week, so I was not my normal party self. That is not excuse for not getting numbers, I am just stating facts.

Second part, can you have post-traumatic stress disorder from remembering dancing lessons? As we were dancing at the salsa I started to remember my cotillion dances -- waltz, foxtrot, cha-cha, merengue....I remember them all, but I have tried to keep them in the dark recesses of my mind...only to come out when I try to dance. Cotillion -- Think of me in an 80's light blue three piece suit (vests were in then); dress shoes that I only wore for church, altar boys, and cotillion; and lack of height. Cotillion...imagine going to a building with a ballroom and a basement. All the boys and girls would congregate in the basement, boys on one side girls on the other. We would mull about talking with friends, until the director would tell us we were about to begin. We would stare across the room as we were told to pick a partner. We would pick a girl who almost matched us in height. I usually got stuck with a tall girl because I was short for my age. We would go upstairs promenading with the girl into the ballroom. All the guys would be sweating bullets because of the heat of the room, the four layers of clothing we had on, and being next to a girl. The girls were usually thinking about there boyfriends who were waiting outside for them after the dance lessons were over and rolled their eyes everytime we stepped on their toes. Dance lessons seemed to go on forever. We would go downstairs for punch. Then go back upstairs for the second part, where "couples" would be randomly selected to dance in the middle of the circle. At the end of the night, there was a mad rush towards the door. All the girls would be picked up by their boyfriends. The boyfriends were the kind of guys that didn't go to cotillion. One night I actually saw a girl who was in such a hurry to get her dress off that she changed out of her fancy dress into jeans and a t-shirt right in the front seat of her boyfriend's car.

So, what can I take from these stories? The next time I see a girl, I'll ask for her number. And I will try not to think about emotionally scarring dance lessons I had as a kid, even though if I tell my grandmother I actually used the dance lessons at a party in Doha, she will be so glad I took them.