Despite total exhaustion, an ER-worthy spike-heel injury on my foot, a hygenically-questionable sweat-induced slime state among the dancing population (it's gross until you find yourself in the same state), poorly-ventilated steam-room-style atmosphere, steady dehydration resulting from the gallons of sweat exhumed (not sure if this is the correct use of the word "exhume," I think it actually refers to cremation...I'm too lazy to look it up so I'll chalk it up to the general degeneration of reading and writing skills in our society) from my pours (but great for my skin) and the bartender who ignores me (water drinkers aren't exactly their favorite clientelle), and poor-to-dangerous dancing conditions that include a sardine-packed club with a stone floor...still, I can't say NO.. I hear a song I love, a great dancer grabs my hand...it's all over.

When I was a kid, my father used to take me on Extreme Backpacking trips that involved long hikes that inevitably led us off the trail and into often treacherous, rocky, terrain. We got lost. We got bitten. I collected rocks and dreamed of five-star hotel rooms and ballet lessons (whatever seemed "normal" to me). Have I ever mentioned that I hate Nature? (There's a reason why I live in the city). Eventually, I realized that I had a choice in the matter and, along with everyone else my father knows, refused to go on hikes with him...but by then it was too late. I was already indoctrinated into the Extreme = Challenge = Fun mentality that tows the line between interesting and self-destructive.

Just for today, I can dance Extreme Salsa.