Once a week I attend a salsa class. I love it, sometimes MariaRose and Molly will come along and we'll tear it up (sorry, that was the urban in me comming out). Before class yesterday, I went into the locker room and was greeted by a little old adorable Spanish lady in a revealing one piece. She told me in broken...more like shattered English that she hurt her back and would be swimming instead of dancing. I wished her well, and proceeded to go pee-pee, when she asked me if I could tell her husband, Reuben, that she was downstairs in the pool. Not knowing Reuben, or what he looked like, I agreed to relay the message as soon as I got up there. Our dance class usually consists of 20 girls and 7 guys. One guy is the token oversexed Oriental with a do-rag, and loose-fitting garb for fast and 'luscious' moves. Another is a short bald computer analyst who belongs to all of the Salsa clubs in the state, & he runs a newsletter. He looks for EVERY opportunity to dance with anything with jazz shoes. Our third male is an older gent who wears biker shorts so tight his yutza does a better 2 step than he. Our remaining 4 are average Spanish looking men, all around the same age. I learned quickly that it's hard to figure out the age of a Spanish man, they all look alike too. Luckily on the second try I found Reuben, unfortunately it was during a Bachata, and he was all the way in the back of the class. I totally felt like a hooker out on the prowl shimmying and whispering to this sought after fella, staking out this lone and rhythmic Reuben. Buenos Noches, mi corazon.