end of week

Went dancing last night and lost three hours in a time warp of ocho cortados and Altoid breath. Granted, I was a little wined up from my impromptu date night at Dell' Anima (you will not believe their avocado bruschetta), but that somehow contributed to my subearthly focus on the floor. I'm not saying I was in top form—I am still too often surprised by trickier shifts of footing and that only gets worse after salted caramel almond cake and Friulana vino dolce—but I had some lovely dances and it felt so good to feel that I'm finally finding my way through my own feet. Little by little, dance by dance, one milonga at a time.

By the time I got home, my feet were stumps and it was after two. Fridays are growing increasingly long and arduous given my Thursday night tango proclivities, but we all know I wouldn't have it any other way.

I emerge from my fluorescent rat cave of an office this evening (and into the bitter fricken cold) with a new clarity. May this perigee full wolf moon inform my adventures in these my forty eight hours of freedom from the 9-to-5.