Salsa picante

Tonight I took my daughter to a salsa class, something we used to do a lot more but we've fallen out of the habit during the last couple of years. It's her reward for a generally good week. She loves it.

I love and hate it. Those Latinas have joints unknown to the Anglo race, and they really know how to wear a pair of jeans. (Speaking of which, am I the only driver distracted by the new Down East slim fit jeans billboards on I-15?) I've dated a couple of Latinas, one Salvadoreña and a Puertorriqueña, both very strong, proud women from unimaginably difficult backgrounds. The Salvadoreña could dance a miraculous merengue, and was very patient with my stuttering, a-rhythmic attempts. She'd take the floor, flip her black, curly mane around a few times, and own the space. We had an upbeat and cheerful relationship for several months at the end of my senior year at BYU. The beginning of the end came over chimichangas one night at Los Hermanos, as I tried to coax out of her what her goals and aspirations were, if any, beyond motherhood. It must of come across as an interrogation, because she responded very defensively and seemed to view me with suspicion thereafter. Perhaps justifiably so. But she was a sweetheart.