Throwing down.

An experienced dancer asked me to dance this week. He's out of my league, without question, but he's a funny guy and we've chatted in the past. He danced a tanda with me, escorted me back to my place, and that was the end of it.

A woman came up to me later that evening with the fakest smile I've seen in a long time. It was bright white, and picked up her silver eyeshadow in a way I'm sure she didn't intend.

I hope.

"I saw you dancing with him," she said, nodding towards him in what was supposed to be a subtle way.

I wondered how many dumpy girls in jazz sneakers were running around the milonga. "Yes."

She looked me over like I was for sale, slid around me towards the door, and said as she passed, "Don't get ahead of yourself."

Dude. What? Seriously?

A guy asks me to dance. I dance. I did none of the things that could be considered rude - I didn't get someone else to ask him for me, I didn't show off on the floor in an attempt to get noticed (hell, I don't have the balance to show off yet), and I didn't brag during the dance by looking around - when my eyes weren't closed in abject terror, they were closed because I was listening to the music.

I have, therefore, decided to gather a gang of spunky beginners (and a few of the hot-tempered intermediates) and create a tango gang (gango?) to combat the inevitable hit that has apparently been put out on me for dancing above my station. If the tango mafia wants to chop off my head, the hitmen will have to negotiate thirty flailing beginners throwing crappy boleos and violent, out-of-control ochos!

Take THAT.