Sunday, September 14, 2008
Life, Health + Fitness

Latin nights

If you want to get sexy and sweaty with your partner, head to Evening at Emory’s hot Latin dance classes

By Colleen Oakley

As some of you may remember, my fiancé Fred and I took salsa classes together back in February. We weren’t exactly Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers on the dance floor, but we did manage to learn the basic steps.

This week, we headed to Emory’s Lifelong Learning Center to add some flair to our stale salsa moves in their Hot Latin dance classes.

Before we even reached the classroom, I had already made a misstep—I wore open-toed shoes. I had flashbacks to Fred’s steel-toe boots crashing down on my delicate toes many months ago. I glared at him—“Watch my feet, sweetie,” I warned through gritted teeth.

We met Jennifer and Jason, our instructors, who had already worked up a sweat shimmying to salsa tunes while waiting for us (we were late, as usual). They jumped right in, reviewing the basic steps and turns for us—then we were ready for the flair (because as any “Office Space” fan will tell you, you can never really have enough flair).

Jason taught Fred the Don Juan move, where, after turning, he takes my hand over his head and lets it sexily drape down his arm. That was the plan, anyway. When Fred executed the maneuver, his right arm went straight up like a duck’s wing and he robotically moved my hand to his shoulder. “Very sexy, baby,” I assured him, while stifling giggles.

Then it was my turn. After a double-hand spin, Fred was supposed to throw my arms back over my head, where I proceed to “flick” my hair haughtily, and—if I’m feeling really daring—add a little body shimmy. The flick was no problem; the shimmy was a disaster.

Jennifer and Jason were very patient with us. They didn’t outwardly laugh at our ridiculousness, so I was impressed with their professionalism. And after an hour of trying to coerce the inner sexy salsa gods from us, they seemed pleased that we were at least getting the steps right.

When class was over, I asked them to dance for us, so I could see what it was really supposed to look like. Jason flung Jennifer all around the dance floor, in mind-dizzying spins and twirls. They were good. Like "Dancing With the Stars" good.

As Fred and I stared open-mouthed at the couple that we would never be on the dance floor, I remembered that things weren’t all grim. “You didn’t step on my toes once this time, honey!” I whispered to him. Maybe there’s hope for us after all. SP
Colleen Oakley is a freelance writer in Atlanta and the former editor of Women’s Health & Fitness magazine. Got a fitness challenge for her? E-mail her at colleen@sundaypaper.com.