PCD: Post Congress Depression

"Post Congress Depression"
8.30.10

Yep. It's Monday. Again. Just the thought of Monday is enough to depress most people. However, for me, this particular Monday is depressing for more than the usual reasons. I'm suffering from a disorder that we salser@s call "Post Congress Depression", or PCD for short.

I can't say that I came up with the term, but I can relate to it as much as the next salser@. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, it is a condition that occurs after attending a salsa congress or any other large-scale salsa event. The main idea of PCD isn't exclusive to salsa congresses, however. We all experience something similar on a 3-day weekend out of town or on vacation. You feel like you're outside of reality for a while; on an island or in a bubble of sorts, shielded from all the monotony, stress and madness you'd otherwise experience at home. That drive or plane ride home is always depressing and somber because you realize that the inevitable has finally arrived: it all had to end sooner or later.

Salsa Congresses (or, as in my most recent episode, a salsa retreat) add a completely different dynamic to the whole end-of-vacation crash. You've experienced brain-overload from attending numerous workshops, witnessed jaw-dropping performances, and had amazing dances from some of the best dancers in the world for a whole weekend. You've met new friends and caught up with old friends from congresses past. You've partied till the sun came up and slept in late. Then, all of a sudden, it hits you. You realize that you soon have to leave this place of salsa euphoria and go back home. Back to the real world. Back to work, bills, kids, or whatever other issues you didn't give a millisecond of thought to because you were so busy losing yourself on the dancefloor.

PCD affects every salsaholic in various degrees, and at different times. Maybe PCD hits you when the promoters queue the lights at 4am on Sunday night-slash-Monday morning, chanting the familiar line of "you ain't gotta go home, but you gotta get the heck outta HERE." Maybe it hits you when you realized it will be months, if not longer, before you get another dance with your new salsa crush with whom you had that blissful dance on Saturday night. Maybe PCD starts to set in during the day on Sunday, when you realize that you only have one more night left before it all ends. Maybe it hits you when you realize you had one drink too many on Sunday night and forgot that you didn't take Monday off from work. Or, maybe you're completely oblivious of it for a few days, and it doesn't hit you until you're back home at your local salsa scene, and you're no longer surrounded by such a high concentration of amazing dancers.

As I stated earlier, I was on the heels of a week-long salsa retreat, so I had an extra dose of PCD that went down about as easy as a tablespoon of castor-oil. (Those of you who had old-school grandmothers armed with a cabinet full of home remedies know how dreadful that tastes.) I spent a week taking about 4-5 classes per day, filled with spin drills, styling, body control/posturing, sick choreography and footwork, and all among the company of some beautiful new friends, inside and out. Oh, and don't even get me started on all the wacky randomness and laughs we all shared. We even had a meet and greet that of course was a salsaholics-anonymous meeting in disguise. It was like a reality show with all the positives and none of the negatives. Well, unless of course you consider the fact that we all swore we heard Jason Vorhees' voice every time we stepped out of our cabins. Anyway, somewhere between Thursday evening and mid-day Friday, PCD began to rear its ugly head. We slowly came to grips w/ the fact that it was all going to end pretty soon. Yeah, we knew it would, but that didn't make it any less sad. Hey, when you get to leave behind everything else and spend any length of time doing nothing but what you love and doing it with others who feel the same, you can't help but wish it wouldn't end. But end, it must. Ah, well... life must, and does go on. Gotta work to feed the addiction. AHEM, um... I mean, pay the bills. Hey, say it how you like. Whatever helps you sleep better at night.

So there you have it, PCD. The epitome of our salsa addiction. We overdose on our drug of choice, knowing we have one huge salsa-hangover waiting for us once we get home. Yes, one other semi-depressing thing a congress does is leave you craving the next one. When you get to do it all over again. :-)