If you're cool and you're reading this, this is not for you

I wanted nothing more than to dance salsa tonight. And it seemed like the conditions were perfect: It wasn't  one hundred and three degrees outside; I returned from the mall with an end-of-the-work-week reward for myself; i.e. a beautiful mahogany bag and gorgeous earrings. I wasn't feeling like a cow and felt confident enough to go out. So I call and text a couple of folks, all of whom are willing to go somewhere but not "all the way to Boston" and surely not to dance salsa.
Ok.
I set my Pandora station to Marc Anthony radio and get ready to go out by myself. Yes, I was going to do it. I was going to venture into this uncharted territory: Going dancing by oneself; treating your relationship with Boston as though you were a married couple trying to revive the flame by acting as though you were on a first date with the place. I was going to be a tourist in Boston with all the daring energy in the world. My cocktail dress was played down by a sloppy bun so as to not look too enticing--I didn't want to get hit on by creepy men.
And then...
I was anxious.
I was ready to go, but thought:
Where will I leave my purse when I am on the dance floor?
And how will I come off: A young woman by herself at a club, ripe for any man to come onto her?
Of course I wasn't afraid of the handsome professionals going to dance salsa after a long work week, who would impress me with great conversation and wit. I was worried about Panchito and his friend Hector, who resemble the men who are most likely to approach me and then ask me awkward questions with sexual innuendos. They'll be 2 feet shorter than me with huge mustaches. Oh, and one of my headlights needs a new bulb and I might get pulled over by the cops.

Before I knew it, my anxieties had defeated me and there was no salsa, no beautiful heels on wooden floors. No memories of Antiguo San Juan and a rekindling of that old Latin flame that still burns inside of me--somewhere--in a dark corner with cobwebs, probably in the basement of my soul.
Instead, I had traded my night of salsa for a party in Beverly--still in the clothes I would have gone dancing in, mind you. You might think that wearing the same clothes I would wear salsa dancing to a party is not that strange. Oh, but it is. Because Beverly parties are not like other parties. People dress in flannel here.
Also, people walk away from you when they don't like what you're saying, which is about 90% of the time for me.  And if they don't know you, they might turn their backs to you. Literally. You might not be able to tell whether you should continue a conversation because they may become uncomfortable with how long the conversation is going or with the dynamic of it all. They may prefer to talk about the word "sex" or "fuck" or cigarettes. If you mention something serious, they may just walk away because it's not in their repertoire of approved topics.
But it's ok. because I'm still seeking to understand people who are different than me. It's the only way to be. And of course, there were lovely people there. People who know me and who I appreciate dearly. It's just those folks I don't know, who I judge intently when they do things that are foreign to me and weird. And then I realize, there are some people who don't act this way, even in Beverly. And coincidentally, they are older and their jobs look a little different and their thoughts are consumed with other topics. So maybe tonight was ok. afterall.
And maybe one day I'll be surrounded with people who will want to dance salsa with me and wear heels and makeup, and maybe they'll want to live in the manifestation of their roots; of their culture; of what makes their heart beat. For now, the hearts of those who surround me beat for something different than me. And it's a tension I must learn more about.