A Richard Gere Movie?

I played two rugby games in a row this weekend. I was scrum-half. This a position that requires constant sprinting and hitting, and since you are in every play, it wears you the hell out. I'm proud to say I stuck tackles for the whole 140 minutes. "You're a beast," one of the guys told me when I got off the field. Coach bought me a beer.

But we lost. I was too frantic. I calmed down before rugby games in college, but I haven't here. It's a different style of play, and there just isn't the communication. We don't trust each other enough. And on top of that, what really bothers me, is that I let that weakness fluster me into not playing my game, into making poor decisions. I didn't slow down inside myself, and I didn't slow down when I had the chance. My frantic play got me hurt, and kept us from breaking ahead in a close game.

That night, sore, a long cleat scar across the back of my hand, legs cramping, I drank wine and danced salsa.

I have been taking salsa lessons for 4 years now.

It is the first lesson every time.

I suck.

Sometimes, there is a partner who can just roll with me, and I improvise, and our dancing looks like passionate dancing and we spin too much and it is fun. ("Don't take her dancing," advises my friend Blair. "She'll get whiplash.")

Sometimes, I dance with someone who actually knows how to dance. They stop me, and we go over the basic step again. "You are dancing tango steps," she says. Or, "That move was great, but you're supposed to do it to the music." When I was in jazz band in junior high, my friend Andy suggested that he would beat me over the shoulder with a yardstick in time to the music. This in fact helps, and forefingers tapping on my neck do link me to the music. I am consoled that Ringo Starr sped up every song he ever played on. I am consoled that Chelsea, when dancing with my parents at salsa lessons back in Alaska, discovered that I lack rhythm in exactly the same way my dad does. My dad is manly as fuck.

But I would like to dance.

That, and I really can't fail at something without seeing it as a metaphor for everything else. My inability to dance on Saturday pretty much presaged a lifetime of wasted athletic talent, panic under pressure, and rushed sex. So, you know, I keep trying to learn.

Z is awesome. She is a lady. She is most intelligent, and fun, and dances very well indeed. And so in this kitchen, despite my weak and cramping legs, which were carrying my lead feet, Z once again reviewed the basic steps with me. 123. 567. Quick Quick Slow. Quick Quick Slow.

Where was 4?

"The slow is the sexy," she explained.

And I realized I needed 4, that invisible, absent beat, in my life. I have rushed far too much, perhaps out of fear that I will miss my chance, or that cowardice will sprout in me if I give it time to germinate. So I need to cultivate the four. Breathe, advises my yogatastic friend Samantha. Calm down, says my old fly-half Lars, looking me in the eyes before each game. Slow is smooth; smooth is fast, I tell myself. I learned it from a special forces soldier.

Of course this is time for a caveat. I am very good at slowing down, at tea, at wasting time for the sake of wasting time, of stretching time with one person. To define oneself is abuse and foolishness, especially to make yourself such a caricature: The Man Who Could Not Go Slow.

But this is my focus, for the next few days. I will live the four beat. I will savor. I will stretch the sexy count.

Now if I can figure out what the fuck that means in practice, I'm set.