We all know the saying parents use, “nothing good happens after midnight.” New York City is no different.
Last weekend my friends and I decided to go salsa dancing. I was thrilled about this! After spending an entire semester with a Colombian two years ago, I had been waiting for an opportunity to show off my moves ever since. I was ready to get out on that dance floor and let my inner Latina shine! After making the plans I quickly rushed back to my room to get ready. And by that, I mean putting on my heels and shaking my hips. I like to think that my hip shaking is comparable to that of Shakira, with less isolation.
I was told to be ready by 11 o’clock sharp! Of course I was ready by 10:45. Upon realizing that no one else had even put a comb to their hair I decided to go back to my personal dance rehearsal.
Finally at 11:58 my door opened. My friend popped her head in and said “We’re leaving!” in a tone that hinted that I was the reason we were late. Nonetheless I grabbed my purse, did one more hair flip in the bathroom mirror and headed out.
Getting out of the elevator in the subway station we caught up with a few characters. A boy and two girls. The girls were stumbling in their 6-inch stilettos and were wearing dresses that would have better served as kitchen hand towels. The guy was obviously the sober one of the bunch and he helped them stagger down the stairs to the platform.
We stood waiting for our subway and unfortunately it didn’t come soon enough. Suddenly one of my friends gasped and covered her mouth. All we could hear were muffled sounds of “Oh my gosh” and “I can’t believe I just saw that.” We looked in the direction of her gaze just in time to see one of the girls squatted, legs spread, against one of the poles and apparently she forgot to wear an important article of clothing.
If that wasn’t enough, she took it upon herself to relieve herself in the process. Her friend tried to help her up and as she bent over it became apparent that she too thought commando was the latest trend.
At last the subway came and we quickly got on. We made our transfer and were on our way to my dancing paradise. It was all I could do to keep my feet from starting a premature Merengue. Just then the woman behind us decided that she couldn’t hold her alcohol and she made this decision public. I don’t think I’ve ever transferred cars quicker.
Our night proceeded to get worse as we witnessed an all-talk-and-nothing-to-show-for-it man get into a fight with the bouncer, and another intoxicated man dance with a sexy, slender table. But who could forget the man that was dancing with his woman in the middle of the dining area. After being asked to move to the designated floor, he proceeded to say the waiter, “Do you know who I am?” Upon witnessing that, it has been confirmed that that line NEVER works! I’d be willing to bet that the woman he was with doesn’t even know who he is.
After being serenaded by a homeless man on the subway platform, we finally arrived at home and I flopped on my bed. I poured myself a bowl of Cheerios. As I munched their honey-nut goodness it occurred to me… I never got to dance. My hips took this personally. They haven’t been out since.