In Which the Salsa Girl is Unexpectedly Busy

I mean, I do set my own calendar, but somehow I have this terrible tendency towards tunnel vision which renders me incapable of seeing anything other than the time slot I am about to fill and the two adjacent to it, which is probably how I ended up booking myself half to death not only for this past week, but also the one ahead. Perhaps I should just blame the city, there’s entirely too much to do all the time and I’m just not nearly strong enough to hold off the urge to try to do everything. So let me take you back to the start of the waterfall that I am currently surfing through February.

On Monday, I did actually have a night off. It was to be the only one of the week but it was in fact a relaxing evening of… oh wait no. No, it was a night off because it had to be. I was nearly out of clothing and had somehow failed to do laundry over the weekend. So I ran home from work (don’t ask if I left on time, none of us want the answer to that) bundled up my laundry and and headed to the laundromat. It was chaos. Apparently doing laundry on a weeknight is just a terrible idea, but I contented myself with watching the interactions of the owners. They are a lovely family of folks and that night the kids were there doing homework while the parents between shuttling clothing in and out of the washers had the tenderest of interactions in a dialect that I, unfortunately don’t speak. So maybe it wasn’t romantic, but their body language was all love. I hope that when I’m at the age where I could have three teenaged children I will still be as sweet and loving with whomever my partner is as those two are. I think the term is: #relationshipgoals

Tuesday saw me racing out of work and into the city to attend the very first class of NYU’s Start-Up School. It’s a free course and since commercialization efforts are a part of my job description I decided that two hours every Tuesday for 11 weeks was a good idea. It’s certainly interesting but I will admit that since it ran from 4-6pm I spent the majority of my time putting out email based conflagrations. Perhaps this week I’ll just take a notebook and turn off my phone.

After the class wrapped up, I bustled back to the subway to head up to the Lincoln Center for the first of the series of concert that I impulsively spent over a hundred dollars on some night the week before. It was worth it.

The concert was a Chinese New Year celebration which featured everything from Eternal Joy by Chen Qigang to segments from Le Toreador and Turandot, and finished with an absolutely rousing rendition of Ravel’s Bolero. It has the best build up of any orchestral oeuvre and the trombones at the end? Sassy, brassy perfection!

And then, it was Wednesday. I went home from work and passed out straight into the pillow for about an hour before peeling my mildly congested and apparently tired self off the quilt and out to my acupuncture appointment. It was a doozy. After a quick assessment I was studded with a handful of pins at least three of which went in accompanied by a flash of pain and a ferocious spasm. I take it that means they went in a spot that needed work. And it wasn’t just the process of getting all pinned up that was intense. Those sneaky little needles, barely puncturing the skin would proceed to enact all manner of magic. The three that ran down the centre line of my stomach suddenly, at the halfway point of the session, turned my perhaps sluggish digestion in a whole new direction. And then there were all the other pins that cued twitches and shifts of what was either muscles, nerves, or possibly Qi. I left a whole new woman with substantially less congestion but a few patches of persistent pain rather of the bruise type. Within an hour, the pain had all dissipated and I was left to wonder how on earth such shallow penetration could have such deep effect. Tune in next week for my next encounter with the pokey part of TCM.

Once shaken out of the sleepy daze that I left the acupuncturist in, I set off into the city for ramen with a dance friend before we made our way to Wednesday Westie. It was mediocre ramen but good conversation and enough calories to fuel a very enjoyable evening of dance.

The following day, would demonstrate to me just why staying out late for dance is a risky idea. I had an event on my calendar for 3:30-4:30, which seemed like a reasonable sort of thing that would allow me to run a bit of reconnaissance for the research group, but because I’m so darn clever, it was actually a 4 hour mini-symposium that saw me sitting dangerously still from 3:30-8pm trying very hard to keep my eyes open and my brain awake enough to take notes. It was all very interesting and I learned an awful lot about liquefaction and earthquake impacts, but once I did my requisite networking, I was unspeakably happy to find myself on a train facing home to my bed. But of course I didn’t actually go straight to sleep, that would have been far too sensible. No, I got all caught up in my book and sleep was less than adequately caught up upon.

Friday finally arrived and I was dog tired so I slipped in a little nap before bouncing off to do another escape room. I did one with colleagues for my birthday and this time it was a whole pile of dance people. We barely made it out, but make it out we did! I think I could get quite into these escape room things. They are deliciously challenging and provide such excellent instant rewards/feedback. If they were cheaper, I’d probably have a whole new obsession on my hands.

Saturday was my usual rigamarole of tidying and bread making but I also prepped waffle batter and eventually made my way to Gotham for more west coast swing. It was a wonderful night of dancing and socializing which ended with early morning snacks in Koreatown and a charmingly rat-filled wander through the subway station before I eventually found my way safely back to my bed.

Today, I baked both bread and waffles, did laundry and some reading for work, and finished my evening eating a bit of nostalgia in a Sichuan restaurant near my apartment with a friend from dance. I even got talked into employing my Mandarin if only for the irony of the white girl ordering in Mandarin while with a Chinese friend limited to English and Cantonese. I hope the server appreciated my brief little stumble across the menu.

And now I’m here in my room staring down a natural language processing textbook and wondering if maybe I could just read Nabokov instead.

The Salsa Girl


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