My Discombobulated Weekend

My Friday night started off with me putting a second dent in my beautiful Scion xB. I’ve only had the car for 2 months now, but somehow I’ve managed to accrue one dent per month, officially making me the worst driver in the world. I still can’t figure out how I managed to back into that enormous pole without the slightest idea that it was there, but I was fortunate enough to have a strange man come to my aid and push my a skewed bumper back into alignment. The man looked like a common beggar to me, but he claimed that his car broke down and all he needed was $3.40 so finish paying for a punctured water hose. I’m usually weary of opening my wallet in front of these type of people, but he was did help me with my bumper and he wasn’t asking for much money, so I handed him over $4 without even thinking about it. Although I’m of course unhappy about having any type of dent in my car, at least this dent is not bad enough to cause any tears and at least I was fortunate to have someone come to my aid so quickly. It’s kind of eerie the way that we were able to help one another. Definitely more that luck, but less than fate.

My night got even stranger when I finally arrived to this enormous house in Belle Meade for a private Latin-American themed party. I couldn’t believe the extravagance of our hostess because she truly spared no expense when planning this party. We are talking live bands, free-lance photographers, catering services, and myself as the entertainment. I was the salsa performer/teacher for the evening, and it was simply extraordinary to finally get paid for my favorite hobby, plus I got the extra added bonus of socializing with rich people, eating lobster, and drinking sangria. It was nice to get a taste of what it’s like to be wealthy, but it was also kind of strange to be made so blatantly aware of my own social class. Although the hostess and all of her guests were very nice and made us feel welcomed, I couldn’t help but stealing looks of disbelief from my dance partner and some of the members of the band because for a moment, we were all bonded together under the context of being the hired help.

The band was something else too. They seemed very well seasoned even though this was only their second performance. I know this because I heard them play their first performance at B.B Kings just last month, and they were surprisingly good. The horns were blaring, the drums were on point, and the vocalists were enchanting. I have to admit that I have a bit of a crush on one of their back-up singers, and I think that there might even be a chance that I can have him, if I could stop being so shy and start up a decent conversation with him. I had the perfect chance to do so on Saturday night after his performance at B.B. King’s, but I couldn’t manage to say anything more creative than, “good job.” I need some better ice-breakers.

Anyway, it wasn’t entirely my fault that my tongue was tied on Saturday because the infamous Colombian was there, and he felt the need to stare at me all night long. I tried my best to avoid all eye contact with him, but I accidentally caught his gaze and with just one look all of my insides were on fire. He looked good, even better than I remember, but strangely I wasn’t attracted to him. I think what I was feeling was more embarrassment than anything else. I felt like too many people were watching us, holding their breath to see what will happen between us next, and I hated being part of the soap opera everyone is talking about.

The Colombian’s uncle was there as well, smiling at me trying to push me on, and I can’t help but resent the Colombian’s uncle just a little bit. The uncle knew how close I was to his nephew. I mean we even all went out to eat together. Why couldn’t the uncle just warn me just at little? I admit that my Spanish is not that good, but I can understand, “El tiene una esposa.” Even my dear friend, the Saint, wasn’t making matters any better by going over to the Colombian’s table and getting messages from him to bring over to me and plotting how to get me to dance with the Colombian again. I simply don’t understand why all these men have so much sympathy for the Colombian. Why isn’t anyone on my side? Regardless of the Colombian’s stares I had a great time Saturday night. Even though I originally told the Colombian that I never wanted to see him again, I don’t think that that’s possible or even fair. We both love salsa too much, and my initial anger has finally simmered down to the point that I can at least tolerate being in the same room as him. It’s progress, because I do want to forgive him, simply because I don’t think that it’s healthy for anyone to hold on to past betrayals. letting them eat away at you. You got to let that stuff go, and I think Saturday was a good start in setting boundaries with the Colombian, but still being kind and civil to him.

When I look back over this weekend, it still does not feel real to me. It was as if I was floating in a dream where some very potent things occurred, but for what ever reason I could not entirely grasp the significance of each event. Nothing worked together to create a cohesive story or theme. Things just were what they were. Nothing more, nothing less.