Evening last my karmic wheel was balanced in a most surprising, gratifying, and painful way.
As you may or may not know or indeed care, Thursday night is tango night. And, due to severe weather last Thursday, I was prevented from attending although I had just procured the appropriate footwear. Yes, GoGo dance in Las Vegas kindly appeared in the top 10 when I googled "tango shoe" and I went forth duly unto that place of much slippered haute couture and stipulated my order and here is the product for your ocular and pedal delectation...
Specially designed with a clever little buckly hooky thangy, ingeniously leg slimming (for even those with the most heiferous calves), delicately balanced to force one onto the toes allowing for just the slightest buttock flex, and a soft suede sole for scampering effortlessly through the molinete, ochos (both forward and reverse), and for a subtle and demure developpe, often referred to as the "caricia" or "caress" after the mordida.
Upon arrival, I was able to have a brief convo with Dana, who is quite good and wears VERY sexy and VERY high heeled handmade tango shoes in either black matte leather or, as in the case of last night's lesson, drool inspiring soft red suede with embossed leather heels.
Ah, but I get ahead of myself.
Prior to even leaving the house, I found myself satisfying a pointed desire to roll the special dice and come up with some lottery numbers. No doubt it would not even be a few minutes stop to run into the convenience store on the corner, grab an Evian, and a Two-Step, Lotto, and Mega with my multiplier. Lotto is a curious thing in and of itself. A remote chance of winning an ungodly sum of dineros that one would hardly be able to even fathom and certainly not manage well, despite all thoughts to the contrary. Of course, how many of you have played the lottery game... no, not buying the tickets. The circle of friends with preferred drinkies in hand and the question is invariably, "what is the first thing you would do...??" And then many well though out rejoinders of "get an accountant/lawyer/counsel", "buy my mom/parents/monkey a new house", and so on. We love this game. It makes us feel like even we too, Mr & Mrs Common Person, can have the kind of lifestyle that MrTrump or Johnny Depp does but that we will be much more conscientious and savvy with our windfall.
I am no different - I felt the gravitational pull of the lotto machine calling and so I tripped off in the HotRod and into the On The Run to do that dance in which the little bubbles are filled completely and carefully with a #2 pencil. It was in that moment Owen entered my evening. A portly, middle-aged cashier just beginning/ending his shift, and craftily lending me aforementioned numerical pencil with which to cast my karmic future into the cages of rustling ping-pong balls of destiny. It simply never occurred to me, as a completely irregular lotto junkie, that payment for my chits of kismet would have to be in hard, cold, and now colorful cash. I swept my debit through the slot and looked hopefully at Owen in the same instant as he eyed me pityingly. "You are aware that gambling has to paid for with cash??? Hmmmm??"
I rifled my wallet which on any other day has a little mad money stashed in a far corner, but unfortunately on this night was devoid of even a penny, as I had just been to see the walnut man for my regular 500# of 12/20 crush. "Ock," I cried, "alas, I have no cash, Owen. I surmise that you will have to void my felicitous and bill-laden future." And without missing a single pudgy beat, Owen reached into his own pocket and retrieved his wallet telling me that just this once he would pay for my tickets and my naive water. I gurgled and goggled and gasped. How could this be?? A human in the form of an Owen slipping his hard-earned lucre into the till for my vibratory and universal chance at abundance. Ne'er was a tango clad chica more flummoxed.
Taking up tickets and water, I tripped to my vehicle and drove the remaining few miles to class. And once there, I mentioned not even a jot of this to anyone. I kept that confused, delighted, and humming feeling all to my very own self as I displayed my new dancing clogs to my fellow tango-ers.
And then began the second portion of my karmic equilibration. As this was only my second class, I was still learning the basics. I had noticed in the previous lesson that there was a short warm-up just prior to beginning in which leads chose a partner and they practiced / displayed what they knew / learned. Last night was the same. So the "new guy", Buck* gave me his hand and asked me to dance. I noticed that he seemed to have a bit of liquor on his breath, or maybe just burning off some redundant ketones, who knows, but I thought to myself, "Self.. perhaps to watch the toes." And off around the dance floor we went.... for about 30 seconds and then, as so often happens when a lead has a whole gymnasium-like dance floor in which to guide his partner, we collided nastily with another couple. I know not whether it was someone of the other couple or my still-striding partner who romped upon my foot, but I felt a twanging pain in my left foot. Trying to be a gracious partner, I shrugged it off, and we continued to stumble around the planks.
Class proceeded with the usual frivolity and self-effacing commentary. However, I noticed that the throbbing in my foot was not subsiding but growing distinctly more pronounced. And as my karma would have it, as we adjourned for the evening and I once again found myself sitting beside the adept Dana, taking my shoes off, she asked if they had been comfortable. And as she glanced at my left foot, commented that, "Oooo, I think your toe may be broken." Well, that would explain the burgeoning ache, not to mention swelling and coloration, in my littlest of toes. "Gee, seems you may be right," I noted.
I thanked all my partners and perfunctorily complimented them as I headed for the HotRod and what I knew would be at best an uncomfortable clutch encounter.
So, again for your ocular and pedal pleasure, I present... that old Sesame game, "One of These Things..."
And so my query to you, Dear Reader, has my karma been universally balanced?????
* Yes, "Buck" - that is his real name as I am in no way disposed to protect his un-innocence.
This is Pepper, my new iToy, my right ear (which is so much like a satellite dish that I can hear aliens farting in the outer crab nebula), and my morning face.
Two years ago Dallas was treated to its very own "Ghost Bar" perched precariously atop the W Hotel on the 33rd floor. In developing downtown Dallas, at first it was THE place to be seen. So, naturally, I didn't go. However, since the subsidence of the hub-bub, me and my "pack" decided to go have a lookie-loo. It was tres cool and the most amazing thing was that aftteer being there over an hour, no smoke smell. NONE! And there were definitely people smoking. 
Now Jess is strafing me.
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