I've noticed that my body's ability to tolerate lack of sleep and a steady supply of processed food seems to have greatly improved since I started dancing salsa (yet another benefit to this hobby). After dancing till 4:00 am three nights in a row, a paltry four hours of sleep is solid rest, and the amount that I sweat on the dance floor (it's like someone turned on a shower on the inside) seems to detoxify my body daily, thus, increasing my body's ability to thrive on coffee, frozen quesadillas and dry cereal (I'm not saying that Frosted Flakes is a breakfast of champions, but if I'm going to let go of my Inner-Food-Nazi, I may as well go for the gold...but I'm not picking up those red vines...that stuff is poison). That aside, the toe injury on Monday, while not permanently damaging, did yield some dramatic repercussions. After spending the entire night iceing my foot and dreaming of Advil (I left my supply at work), I woke up feeling kind of light headed, only to soon find myself passed out in the middle of my apartment.

I never thought making sure that I don't hit my head when I faint from a salsa toe injury would be a reason to get married (and it's not), but a cat (which I don't have) might not know to dial 911 (at least not right away). Like I told Cool Accountant Lady in the kitchen yesterday (home to many deep conversations while the microwave heats up my quesadilla), I never had any fantasies regarding the institution of marriage...rather, when I was ten and my mom took me to the iron-on store in the mall (what happened to those? would someone let me know when they come back?) I personally chose an iron-on t-shirt that read, "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle...I was 10!). To this day, I believe that most people are looking for no more than someone to split the cable bill with, and keep them from their own company (do I sound cynical? whatever...). I would like to actually like the personhood of the person. So I guess I'm left with yet another reason to find a live-in companion whose only job is to make sure I don't injure myself. How I've made it this far in life is a mystery ...it must be all the love and support of the termites and/or the spirits that inhabits the apartment next door (they're cool with me)...

I'm not weird, I have very unique attributes that become heightened by sugar.

Just for today, I'm still alive.

Tonight about 170 lbs. of weight came down on my toe and rammed the nail into the skin (serious pain). I still finished the song (because I'm committed). But, boy, this some dangerous shit.

Just for today, I still have my toes.

It was close to 4:00 am and I was exhausted from the last four days of dancing for hours on end, but it was the last song of the night and I had already sweated (I'm a sweat bath...doing anything with my hair is useless) and panted through the last three songs, so, there was really nothing to do but go for it. It was one of my favorite salsa songs (Sonido Bestial by Bobby Cruz and Richie Ray), but I didn't know it was the extended remix version. If you have to die dancing salsa, that would be the song. I was dancing with Don't Miss A Beat for six minutes of serious, aerobic high speed salsa when I didn't think I had anything left in me... the last few minutes reminded me of the final sprint in the 1600 in high school...but a lot more fun.

Just for today, salsa hasn't killed me.

I've been living a very vampiric lifestyle this weekend, dancing till 4:00 am and sleeping all day (courtesy of the Salsa Congress...I don't know why it's called that...it sounds like they pass laws or something). I'm fine today, but yesterday I thought I might keel over from salsa exhaustion. If this is how I die, then so be it. So long as I'm not dancing with someone who's off the beat, which wasn't always the case last night. However, if I find myself dancing with a lot of beginners then I can only blame myself for not picking up on the cues. The way to tell if a stranger is a good dancer, according to my salsa friend, is by the way he asks you to dance. If he's seasoned and solid, he sort of grabs your hand from the side with a knowing look, like, "you know you want to dance with me." There's no asking involved. If he's a beginner he gets right up in your face and says, "Hi, my name is _____, would you like to dance?" This is a guide book waiting to happen...

Last week, Salsa Guru came over to try to set my salsa straight. He's reminds me of the Morgan Freeman character in...any movie, mixed with Mr. Miyagi from Karate Kid, all wrapped in the body of 25-year-old Latino male. Since he's a shaman, I let him break down the truth of my errant salsa ways with deep humility. Salsa is serious business. You don't just get out there and do whatever you want, not if you want to dance with good dancers. Anyway, Salsa Guru has a way of putting things that perfectly encapsulates the spirit of salsa. The best gem of the evening was when he told me to dance like a conceited stuck-up bitch. I've waited my whole life for someone to give me permission to do that...he rocks.

Just for today, I am a developing salsera.

Ultimate Extreme Director of Multi-Media, AKA, Evil Flash Programmer (he wants a promotion REALLY bad) just informed me that "Fucked-upness" IS officially a word. It may not be in the dictionary (yet), but if I use it professionally (as in, "Could you assess the degree of fucked-upness of the situation?") nobody I work with would think twice. I'm not saying that my job isn't fun and rewarding, but I will say that I have never understood the expression "driving me to drink," quite like I have in the past few weeks. When alcohol starts sounding good, I'm either one of two things: extremely happy or about to be flattened by a steam roller (metaphorically speaking). I just keep telling myself, in the high pitched interior voice of denial "...this is growth!" After all, I could be selling debt consolidation loans over the phone, or traumatizing 12-year-olds with standardized tests. Perhaps, stress is my new drug, but if that's the case I'm going to need a lot more margaritas...

Just for today, I'm keeping it together (sort of).

Last night I was introduced to a new salsa dance move which I'll call, "Hump The Guy Against A Wall." I'm not sure how it goes (call me a prudish novice, but I would have needed some serious alcohol to participate) but I believe it entails the guy standing up against the wall while the woman performs some kind of stripper action on him (in the name of art). What transpired was the poor guy leaning against the wall and while I shook my head no (on the beat). I have to say, I did admire his spirit. I wish I could pursue my writing career with the same unflappable energy and fearlessness towards rejection.

Just for today, I can learn new dance moves.

Yesterday, I had a long overdue meltdown that inspired a great many phone calls to people who haven't heard me cry on the phone in a long time (I've been busy...it takes energy to have a breakdown). Not to mention all the downloading of my interior monologue at inappropriate times and places (Evil Flash Programmer's desk). Yet, another good reason why I shouldn't work late on Fridays, after a certain point I just can't control the edit function that helps me preserve the casual cool image. It's all good now, just a not-so-gentle reminder from the universe that I can't expect to always be strong and mature and beyond human needs for things like love, appreciation, and acknowledgement. Sometimes I need to permission to not have my shit together and still be loved...(not that I'm the poster child for functionality, but I do have a very well organized closet...).

Anyway, post-meltdown is always a relaxing time (I used to have them all the time...I think I'm just pressed for time these days) and I'm feeling the love and good vibes with the people who listen to all my crap (what's up with this swearing?...) including (but not limited to) Evil Flash Programmer, Mojo Rising, Hot Gay Boyfriend, Fabulous Friend #1, 2, and 3, little sister, and, MOST IMPORTANTLY...(guess?) yes, it's you, mom!

Just for today, I can have a meltdown.

Last night I walked into yoga class to witness the tail end of an argument that seemed on the verge of a full-on yoga-fight. I'm so bummed I missed it. I've been to that teacher's class before and I have to say the twenty minutes of chanting did put me in somewhat of a rage, but I thought it was just me. I felt a little sorry for the teacher. It's gotta be humbling to have a violent yoga class. I have compassion for people whose lives are ostensibly built on being teaching peace, love and the repression of the innate complexity of human emotions (ok, so I'm a little judgemental...). Another good reason why white men shouldn't grow dreadlocks...it's just too risky.

Just for today, I can reserve judgement.

I had dinner with two friends last night, both of whom are living in blissful co-habitation (no need to bother with labels like "Married," which could refer to anything from domestic violence to peaceful sexless companionship). My friends are clearly having sex and still speaking to their respective partners. Needless to say, I dodged all references to my dating status out of fear that I might shame spiral into my chicken tamale (and that would be a big mess). There was clearly an awkward moment when it became my turn to talk about my personal life and all I could say was, "Internet dating sucks...how's the green chile?" I thought of volunteering something like, "A salsa guy told me he wants to get in my pants..." but besides being a cliche, it didn't seem to follow the thread of conversation about my friend and her husband's recent purchase of a second home in Costa Rica....

At a certain point in life, the inability to have an intimate relationship feels like a public source of shame. Who cares that most relationships I know of are dysfunctional, distant, or take place for a bare few seconds each day. Unlike these people, I don't have anyone to avoid by working, shopping, eating, or day dreaming that I still have a shot at meeting George Clooney (we do live in the same city). Not to mention, I don't have a good excuse, like I'm training for the Olympics or am recovering from a recent head transplant (though, it's sounding like a viable option). At least my mom admits that "I'm special," in every sense of the word. Those are the words that my high school Spanish teacher told her and she won't let me forget it...I guess all I'm missing is a live-in companion to make sure I don't pop my eyeball out with my tooth brush...

Just for today, I can vent about my personal life.

My cube is right by the snack table and I practically went deaf today with the sound of chips crunching in my ear all day...damn software engineers and their guacamole. Thank God for Evil Flash Programmer (he's only evil with code) for making my work life sane. He called me this morning to tell me that he was running late. He had tried calling his manager, but he hadn't arrived at work yet (people come in late...thank God). He thanked me for answering my phone, thereby, acknowledging that he's alive and breathing. A fact, he went on to tell me, that he reminds himself of every morning when he wakes, right before asking himself, "Is this what life is supposed to be like?" I suppose a lot of people ask themselves that question, right before putting on a steely face of confidence and venturing out into the world. But how many people admit it?

Just for today, I love Evil Flash Programmer.

I spent yesterday afternoon with my fabulous abundant friend shopping in a swanky LA neighborhood filled with Fabulous Cute Stores with designer clothes and designer (i.e., totally inflated) prices. My friend has no problem dropping $300 on one item, where as I am quite fond of Forever 21 and the sales rack anywhere. However, occasionally, I feel the need to make an expensive purchase just for sake of knowing that I can.

So, while she tried on dressed, I tried on a pair of $200 skinny jeans that shrunk my butt and extended my legs (it's kind of magical how that works...). They felt great, but I still couldn't quite justify the money. Plus, the sales girl was snooty and scowled at my suggestion that I roll up the pants leg (whatever).

After debating, I called my sister, the Queen of Used Clothes to ask her if she would still respect me if I bought a new pair of $200 jeans that, were I more savvy, I could probably find at a Crossroads somewhere for $30. She didn't have a strong opinion so, left with my own responsibility for my spending, I put them on hold and my friend and I perused other stores. Or, rather, she perused the items in the store while I reiterated comments like, "What?! $80 for a tank top?!" However, one store we ended up at had a sales rack with jeans formerly priced at $200, but MARKED DOWN (two beautiful words) to $50 AND in my size...! My heart raced! A Shopping Miracle was about to be had! Well, as the 20 minute aerobic workout in the dressing room made clear, they were really only my size in theory. Getting them on was another story. If it weren't for my Power Yoga arms and my salsa lungs, the button and the hole would have never come together. Squeezed into two legs of Indigo denim, I walked out like the Tin Man, waiting for the seams to to explode right there in the swanky boutique.

"Perfect!" yelled my friend.

"You have to get them!" said the sales girl.

"But I can't move."

"It doesn't matter. They'll stretch!"

"Can you sit?"

I made an effort to bend my joints and managed to do something like sit down. I bought the jeans and took them home. The next day I spent another half hour putting them on and practicing doing simple things like walking a few feet. Like any new relationship, it's going to be a gradual breaking in process...but with enough patience in time they'll feel like home. So, $150 more would have made it instantaneous...where's the fun in that?

Just for today, I can buy new jeans.

Like many women in LA who populate nail salons, stores, and hair removal shops (do they have a name?) on the weekends, I put my fair share of time and energy working on the upkeep. I'm not complaining about it. I understand it's a personal choice to do the eyebrows and comparative bra shopping (and I'm not talking about price), and I know I don't have to. I grew up around enough braless hairy women (mom) to understand the power of not giving a rat's ass and I respect it. But that was in a hippy town in the 70's. I now live in Los Angeles in the 21st century. Bill Maher once said that any woman would rather be considered "hot" than "smart" (though, I'm sure "hot and smart" might top the list for many). I suppose such is the nature of our consumer culture. If we have enough convenience, quantity, and sexual appeal all our problems will be solved and the gates of heaven will open up and bestow eternal youth and organic flour-free baked goods upon our exfoliated souls (I'm sorry, but the skin peel things is scary). I'm not saying that I agree with Bill Maher, but, for whatever reason (insecurity, fear, boredom), I've done my fair share of searching in the pursuit of "hotness"...

And then what happens? Along comes an attractive male who I might consider getting to know (it could be in the salsa world...but maybe not) who then proceeds to engage with me as a sexual object. Ew. I'm horrified and thoroughly grossed out. All this work, to feel offended AND nauseated. Thanks to years of therapy, I'm not so jaded as to hate or resent men, but, nonetheless, this is not the experience I've been looking for. Plus, I'm old enough to know that sexual attraction can last anywhere between .005 seconds to three months. I'm not saying I'm going to tatoo Shakespeare sonnets on my forehead and grow out my armpit hair, but the appeal of sexual appeal is really starting to lose its power. There's nothing wrong with hot. Hot is fine. So are jelly beans and soy lattes. They just will never give meaning to my life.

Just for today, I'm hot enough.

I feel very blessed to have some very wonderful people in my life. I told my boss today how much I appreciate her presence in my life and that she is truly a woman who lives up to the title, "adult." I've never had anything like a mentor in my life (except for my therapist) and I never thought I would find it in corporate America. But somehow I was fortunate enough to be placed in a situation with someone who teaches me every day how to effectively handle challenging situations with grace and intelligence.

Just for today, I feel lucky.