Where Did the Dance Floor Go?

Back in my day, we danced ‘til we stank. Now they pose, post, and peace out in five. A sweaty ode to the school dances that raised us—and a quiet plea to bring back the rhythm.

I used to think the phrase “you had to be there” was reserved for people who saw Nirvana live or went to Woodstock. Now I think it’s for anyone who actually danced at their school dance.

Because let me tell you—school dances used to be something magical. And no, not the Disney kind of magical. I’m talking musty gym floors, undercooked pizza, dollar store streamers, and the sweet, sticky scent of adolescent sweat. That kind of magic.

We didn’t need mood lighting. We had a disco ball from 1974 that squeaked when it turned. We didn’t need a photo booth with props—we had disposable Kodaks and awkward frontal flash. We didn’t have Spotify playlists curated by moody teens in hoodies. We had DJ Mike, a janitor’s cousin with a van and an AUX cable.

And somehow, we thrived.

I remember showing up to every dance like it was the social Super Bowl. Homecoming? There. Winter formal? Absolutely. Prom? Went to three of the four, and the one I skipped I still feel FOMO about. We danced until our shirts stuck to our backs. We shouted the lyrics to songs we pretended not to love—*NSYNC, Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears—*like we were on stage and Ryan Seacrest was watching.

You weren’t too cool to dance. You weren’t too cool to try. In fact, if you stood on the edge of the gym with your arms folded all night, people didn’t think you were mysterious—they thought you were mad your mom forgot to pick you up.

Dancing was the whole point.

Sure, there was the awkward stuff too. The slow dances. The kind where you spent more time worrying about where to put your hands than enjoying the song. One hand on her hip, one on her shoulder? Too stiff. Both hands around her waist? Too forward. Hands in your own pockets? Borderline mime behavior.

And God help you if your palms were sweaty—which, let’s be honest, they always were. Nothing says romance like whispering “sorry” every five seconds as you shuffle in a circle to Boyz II Men.

But here’s the thing: we showed up. We danced. We risked rejection, bad breath, pit stains, and our already fragile social standing because those nights mattered.

So now, watching my own kid navigate the modern dance scene? I gotta be honest... I’m confused. No, scratch that—I’m concerned.

Today’s school dances are a different beast entirely. First of all, they’re outside. On a football field. With cornhole boards and food trucks and carnival games and other things that are decidedly not dancing. It’s like someone said, “Let’s have a school dance, but remove the dancing part so nobody feels joy or discomfort.”

Even when they do have a proper dance indoors, the event feels more like a runway show than a party. Everyone’s dressed to the nines—which is great, we did that too—but now it’s Jordans and Gucci belts and dresses that probably cost more than my first car. They take pictures like they’re about to drop a mixtape. They group up like wolf packs. And then... they leave.

Seriously. They show up, snap twenty minutes’ worth of photos, stand in the corner for five actual minutes, and then dip out to someone’s house. To sit around. Not dance. Not even flirt awkwardly. Just scroll and sip Sprite in a circle while pretending not to care about anything, including each other.

They spend more time curating their appearance at the dance than existing in it.

And listen, I get it. It’s a different world. Social media has turned everything into performance art. One wrong move ends up in a Snapchat story. One awkward dance can become a TikTok meme. But man, I still feel like they’re missing something.

They're missing the core memory.

That moment when you lock eyes with someone across the dance floor and suddenly you're the star of a John Hughes movie. That second when the beat drops and the whole gym erupts like it’s a concert. The high of being surrounded by sweaty, loud, awkward friends who are just letting go. The bravery it takes to walk across a room and ask someone—heart pounding, palms moist, voice cracking—“Wanna dance?”

Sure, it sounds simple. But when you're 15? That’s Everest.

And even if she says no—and she will, sometimes—you did it. You showed up. You put yourself out there. You took the shot.

Now, it’s like we’ve engineered all the risk right out of it. Everything is safe. Curated. Cool. We’ve got teens dressed like Vogue models and acting like bored celebrities at an afterparty.

Where’s the fun?

Where’s the sweat?

Where’s the ridiculous train of people doing the Cha Cha Slide for the ninth time because nobody knows how to DJ?

Where’s the slow dance with the girl who doesn’t even know your name, but agrees anyway because that’s what you do at a school dance? You say yes. You try. You sway. You laugh about it later.

I know I sound like an old man yelling at a cloud. But I’m not mad. I’m just... a little heartbroken. Because I know how much those weird, goofy, cringey nights shaped me. They helped me get comfortable with being uncomfortable. They taught me how to laugh at myself. They taught me how to show up, even when it was scary.

And now I watch a generation of kids avoiding that exact experience in favor of something... less. Safer. Cooler. More forgettable.

And yeah, maybe they’ll still have memories. Maybe they’ll remember the outfit or the group photos or the ride to Applebee’s after. But will they remember themselves, in those moments?

Will they remember sweating through their shirt and not caring?

Will they remember the courage it took to dance when no one else was?

Because I do.

I remember walking out of the gym soaked in sweat, out of breath, hoarse from yelling lyrics all night, and feeling like I just lived a movie. And maybe I didn’t get the girl, or maybe I danced like a wounded squirrel, but it didn’t matter.

I was alive. I was in it. And that feeling? That wild, unfiltered joy?

That’s something worth dancing for.

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Tonight’s Cocktail: “The Dance Floor Survivor”
Made for the dads who remember how it felt to risk rejection and still dance like no one was watching.

• 1½ oz reposado tequila

• ¾ oz watermelon liqueur

• ½ oz lime juice

• ¼ oz agave syrup

• 3 drops habanero tincture (optional, for the bold)

• Tajín for rim

Instructions:
Rim your glass with Tajín and set it in the freezer. Shake everything else with ice like you’re dancing to “Yeah!” by Usher. Strain into the chilled glass. Sip slowly, with a smile and a memory of a night you actually danced like no one was watching.

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You can’t bottle teenage freedom. But you can sip something that reminds you of it.

And maybe—just maybe—convince your kid to stick around for more than five minutes next time.

Because sweating through a cheap suit and dancing off-beat might just be the best night of their life.
They just don’t know it yet.