I've been out dancing salsa for the last five nights in a row. This morning I realized that salsa is great for the arms, legs, heart (the physical as well as the emotional one), soul, and spirit. But it doesn't do a lot for booty flab (at least not mine).

A few nights ago, a group of Salseros/Salseras took Salsa Guru out for his birthday to his favorite Cuban place and then went out dancing. He had sprained his ankle, so he spent most of the night teaching us moves, steps and 'tudes ("dance like you're a stuck-up bi-otch"). It turns out that I'm not the only who has suggested that he get edu-macated. But, as my therapist would say, he's "attached" to the struggle (she says that about me all the time), i.e., this image of himself as a child of the ghetto (I'm sorry, El Segundo is not the ghetto). He consciously chooses to say things like "militry" instead of "military." I never recognized before how easy it is to invent excuses to not move to the next level in life.

Yesterday, the plumber came and snaked my kitchen sink for fifty feet. About twenty years of black sludge came out so that my sink would drain. I can certainly relate. I think it's just that time of year.

Just for today, I'm ready for a break.