By Gina Angostura
Columnist

“One Hundred Years of Solitude” is not just a novel by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, it’s the story of my life.

Being alone, I have a lot of time on my hands. I believe it’s important to spend part of every day pondering the universe and contemplating the meaning of existence. That part takes me about three minutes.

The rest of the 23 hours and 57 minutes not taken up with sleeping, eating, working, looking for chocolate on co-workers’ desks, and reading the same copy of “People” over and over in the bathroom, I spend on one thing – watching my DVR backlog of “Dancing with the Stars.”

Previous articles • September 28, 2006 • September 14, 2006 • August 31, 2006 • August 17, 2006 • August 3, 2006 • July 20, 2006 • July 6, 2006 • June 22, 2006 • June 8, 2006 • May 25, 2006 • May 11, 2006 • April 27, 2006 • April 13, 2006 • March 30, 2006 • March 16, 2006 • March 2, 2006 • February 16, 2006 • February 2, 2006 • January 26, 2006 • January 19, 2006 • January 12, 2006 • January 5, 2006 • 2005 Archives

I’ll tell you why. Listen up, guys, this is important. Put down the beer and step away from the TV. Nothing is sexier than a man who dances.

Case in point: my colleague Dan. A mild-mannered Web designer by day, Dan moves quietly through the office not making any trouble or attracting much attention. But at night! At night he becomes Tango the Magnificent!

We know he takes Argentine tango lessons, but we pshawed and pooh-poohed the idea, even teased him about it, him and his shiny little black tango shoes. That is, until we saw Dan in action.

It was at our last company Christmas party. We always have a talent show because who doesn’t want to see a bunch of inebriated sales reps sing a hastily written song about deadlines?

Act after act performed – tapdancers, joke-tellers, Gene Simmons impersonators – you know, the usual talent show lineup. We gotta get a gong next year.

But then, the house lights dimmed, the spotlight went up, and there was Dan, in black fedora, poised to begin ... the dance!

We watched, open mouthed, as our quiet little Danny spun a woman around the floor, pivoting decisively on his toes, trailing his fingertips down her arm, dipping her backward. Did you hear what I said, guys? Dipping her freaking backward!

Now that’s what I call talent. They didn’t win – the judges were much more impressed with Mr. Simmons’s tongue work. But while Gene was in the bathroom washing the fake blood off his pasty white face, every woman in the place was gathering around Dan like he was Antonio Banderas.

A few women, including yours truly, wanted a turn to learn a step or two. Danny hadn’t seen that much action since he got Lara Croft through the band of rogue mercenaries in the underground pit in “Tomb Raider.”

Women love a man who dances, no doubt about it. Of course, there’s that fine line between light on their feet and light in the loafers. I don’t think I’d date a guy from the chorus of “42nd Street,” for instance.

But dancing is sensual.

Dancing is romantic. Dancing will get you farther than flowers, candy, a foot rub and fixing the clogged drain in the bathroom, combined.

And guys, you don’t have to be Fred Astaire or Ricky Martin. (Please don’t be Ricky Martin.) Just ... dance with us.

It’s not a lot to ask.

And we won’t make fun of you if you dance like an ostrich on crystal meth. We promise.

For more information on Argentine tango, visit atanh.com.