When I was in eighth grade, my parents made me take a ballroom dancing class because everyone else was doing it. (For some reason, when I used that logic to defend many of my other adolescent actions, it didn’t fly.)

The class typically went as follows: 120 fourteen year-olds were crammed into a room built for 50; an underpaid, over-passionate instructor dressed like a Medieval balladeer yelled commands like “Swing your partner!” for two straight hours; and at the end of it all he played the “Cha Cha Slide” just to make us feel better (although I still have no idea how to do the Charlie Brown). Worse yet, there were slightly fewer girls than boys — so a few male stragglers were left dancing with each other (horrible) or one of the supervising moms (Oedipal).

Now, more than six years later, I barely know how to box step. So when I read stories about college students involved in ballroom dancing competitions, I get nostalgic and sad.

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