If there was ever a revolution in dance, dance… it is not me. My version of dancing involves jumping up and down to loud music at a party in between rounds of beer pong. While I’m sure there is a girl out there somewhere who would find that appealing, it is certainly not the way the body moves to attract a mate.

And with President’s Ball just a two-step away, I wanted to take this opportunity to explain why I probably will not be attending. Don’t get me wrong, I think the whole shindig is a great idea and I want everyone who goes to have a wonderful time, but school dances are not really my kind of scene.

Instead, the scene that intrigues me is the internal movie that plays in my head whenever anyone mentions a “school dance.” Growing up with high school dramas like “Freaks and Geeks” and “The O.C.” has idealized my mental notion of a dance so that I picture my sharp-dressed peers dancing at a reasonable distance, the couples a bit closer, to a live band playing “Forever Young.” For three hours.

Maybe the DJ throws in “Jump Around” by House of Pain for good measure.

Sure, this may seem more like the fantasy of your parents than a 21-year-old college student, but I can be a little old-fashioned at times. (My editors hate when I send in manuscripts from my typewriter).

Editor’s note: We really do.

These days, though, I approach dances in a much less naive mindset than I did as a youngster. Partially it is due to the gradual experience I have gained. Partially it is due to how much sex I see happening on the dance floor.

I may appear particularly conservative in my views of how the expression of dancing with a partner has devolved from a well-choreographed interpretation of music to borderline pornography easily viewed by anyone who can’t afford internet.

But of course, this is how the youth of today expresses itself, with tweets and statuses and public fornication, and I have to roll with the times. Unfortunately, as a gawky, unathletic writer, my sexual appeal is rather negligible. Grinding, or as this dancing is better known, “getting jiggy with it,” has an apparent monopoly on the dancing industry in modern America, and is not exactly in my repertoire of skills.

Perhaps one day is will have mastered the art of foxy-trotting but not before this particular venue.

Tickets to the Presidents’ Ball are only $10, so there is really no financial repercussions of attending, but I still have not completely decided whether or not I am going, as my roommates are not fully convinced that me being the third wheel is what their dates are eager for.

“It two to tango,” I tell them. “You won’t even know I’m here. Now just find me a clear spot to start jumping around.”

That’s just how I boogie, man.

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