OR DIP AND RUN AT SALSA...
Wednesday night salsa lessons, just me and Mini-Me (my coworker, blonde, blue eye, 2 inches shorter than I, 8 years younger). Mini-Me is quite the salsa-er and has hooked me, too. She goes weekly, I go during the kidless weeks. After lessons we stay for "open dancing." Being a Wednesday, it's quiet, but "Tito" from Puerto Rico spins us around the floor. He and mini-me start stirring it up, and I get stuck watching. I beg to go home, but mini-me is getting her groove on, so I stick it out. Eventually I get moving myself and am learning some sophisticated turns from a more experienced dancer when suddenly Mini-me is gone. I sit down next to Tito (really, that's his name) who says, "Man did you see what happened?"
ME: What do you mean?
TITO: Mini-Me hit her head and is bleeding everywhere...
ME: [on full alert and panicking] WHERE IS SHE?
TITO: In the bathroom
I bolt to said ladies room to discover mini-me with a now red head instead of blond, perched on the counter, looking into her tiny compact at the back of her head. She looks up at me with doe-eyes and says, "I can't figure out where the blood is coming from...." I wipe her down, take a quick look, bolt to the bar for a bag of ice, "Hielo en una bolsa ahorita por favor!" (Freaks them out when the blond, white chick speaks Spanish). Assess damage to mini-me, determine that although not deep it is long, so we head to the hospital. Tito follows us to the car, apologizing for dipping Mini-me into the giant square column that's in the middle of the dance floor that he forgot about. Dipped her right into the column. With great force. Nice... Oh did I mention that Tito is taller than average, works out (and/or takes steriods) and is somewhat...well. orange. Kind of looks like a giant oompaloompa...anyway.
Mini-me checks in at the hospital (fills out a card and drops it in the box. She says, "I want to see a Dr not leave a comment!) and is seen in record time. Note to self: Although salsa dancing is hot and we wear shorts and tank tops and dancing shoes, bring a jacket so that you don't walk into hospitals at 12:30 a.m. in 50 degree weather looking like a street walker. Once the Drs and nurses determine we are:
1) not drunk (we only drink water - salsa is a workout!)
2) not hookers
3) not dying or otherwise mortally injured
they get a huge kick out of Mini-me's drive-by dip and run injury story. I try to explain that Mini-me is a really good dancer. Nurse John Smith rolls his eyes and says, "Oh yeah, obviously..." Mini-me escapes without stitches after some debate among the Drs. She's asked 7 or 8 times when her last tetnus shot was. She repeatedly answers, "I don't know." Finally Nurse John Smith (really his name) asks again, and the lawyer in me answers for her, "You know, you can ask that question as many times as you like and the answer isn't going to change. She said she doesn't remember." He knows we are both lawyers and starts cracking up. We leave an hour later with some pain pills, a sore arm for Mini-me after the shot, some bacitracin (sp?) and rants from another patient about "molotov cocktails."
Who knew Salsa could be so dangerous?