The Eloquent Tanguero

I was dancing with a tanguera last night when she asked, after the tanda ended, “Have you ever been to Buenos Aires?”

“No,” I said, feigning disinterest, “and I don’t think I ever will go, to tell you the truth.”

I should have lied but for some reason I was feeling cocky. Telling the truth is always a mistake when I am talking to women I don’t know.

“Why not?” she inquired further.

When I heard the follow-up question I should have known that I was in the process of breaking the number one rule of being the Kayak Hombre: keep your big fat mouth shut!

Who is the Eloquent Tanguero? Not me, that’s who!

The cortina began to play so we still had a few moments to vacate the dance floor and find new partners. I proceeded to stick my foot in my mouth as far as it could go.

The reason I try to adhere to the codigo de silencio as my number one rule of conduct is because my words, both their selection and the volume, often ruin what could have been a pleasurable experience for my partner.

In my heart and soul there is a raging river. I often speak as if I am trying to be heard above the crashing of the waves.

Like a kayaker navigating dangerous rapids, I choose my words from the stream of my consciousness, reacting to the moment, and either regretting what I’ve said or basking in the glory of a well-received expression of a thought.

I learned long ago that some of the women who dance tango are hoping to encounter an educated man who is inspires confidence on the dance floor and provides eloquent conversation if called upon to do so.

Sometimes I am that man...until the moment I start speaking and then it’s all downhill from there!

So full of myself that my eyelids were nearly shut from my skin stretching so tight, I said so loud that everyone could hear me, “There’s no reason for a man to go to Buenos Aires. I’m sure there’s great tango there but other than that there’s nothing else to do unless you’re a woman looking to get laid by a six-foot Argentine soccer player and buy a lot of shoes!”

I can’t recall just exactly what she said but I do remember with painful clarity that her opinion of me burst like a balloon pricked by a pin.

On the long ride home, thinking about this weekend’s most salient event for a new blogpost, I realized that was it and I was not too happy to put it to words.

As I sit here in my apartment in Wisconsin Rapids, I wonder why I am forgetting myself and the rules by which I engage other dancers. Is it the lack of alcohol? A runner’s high? Maybe my behavior is a subconscious resignation to living here permanently (another winter at the very least) and I want to see if I will be accepted for the loud child that I, and no one else in Wisconsin, knows that I am.

Oh well. Life here in America’s Dairyland goes on. I am alcohol free for six weeks now and I am jogging three times a week.

I’d like to say the next job contract I get after this will be my last but I think I need to continue working as a contractor for a few more years. Wherever I go next, I hope there is lots of tango; maybe there I will be given a chance to start anew and be the eloquent tanguero, if only in the imaginations of a few wishful tangueras.