Have you ever thought about the first person to dance? All the cavemen and cavewomen are sitting around the fire after the mammoth feast, banging rocks together or whatever they did, and suddenly, one of them gets up and starts moving around, shaking what their cave-mama gave them. Everyone else must have been pretty confused, but for some reason, these actions continued.

Unfortunately, this first dancer did not pass any of their funky genes on to me. I tend to dance like one of those inflatable “grand opening” tube guys you see when buying a new car. I learned how to waltz in eighth grade, and I can hold my own with the twist. As I found out recently though, this doesn’t help me out too much in 2014.

Think about it. That dude just can’t dance. Believe me, I’ve tried. And looking back, I feel bad for every girl I ever dragged along to homecoming or spring formal. For any of those unfortunate souls, I imagine dancing with me is like dancing with your father-in-law at your wedding. I’m bumping into people, stepping on feet — it’s just bad news.

This is precisely the reason why I received the shock of my life last weekend.

I went out on Saturday night — sorry, Mom and Dad — to meet up with some friends of mine. It was then that I was approached and asked something I had not heard in quite a long time. Would I like to dance? Hello, confidence boost!

After my surprised “Yes,” I was soon reminded that it was 2014. I wasn’t at the sock-hop with Peggy Sue. That was Zedd playing over the speakers, not Chubby Checker.

The words barely left my mouth when I had some stranger’s backside using my thigh like a scratching post. I was brought back to my brief basketball days, and I was being boxed out of the paint. I couldn’t even see the gal’s face. Luckily, my dance floor adventure lasted about eight seconds. And then she was gone.

In those eight seconds, I had a profound moment of clarity. The whole dancing on your partner rather than dancing with your partner was kind of sad to me. I felt like that crotchety old man that my dancing emulates. This dang generation and their commitment issues! They can’t even look me in the eye when I’m dancing with ‘em!

The more I think about it, the more I feel like she just had an itch she couldn’t reach.

Naïve little Zach thought he could dance to EDM, and this girl apparently thought so too — although only for a matter of seconds. At first I felt bad for myself, acting like a dancin’ fool out there. Now I feel even worse for my mysterious dance partner for having to put up with me. It was like I was 4 years old again, and my mom lost me in Wal-Mart. I didn’t have a clue what to do.

But a guy can dream, can’t he? I’ve been told that college is all about learning, or something like that. It looks like I’ve got to learn how to dance. So if you’re out there, mystery dance partner, my sincere apologies. But if you’re gonna dance with me, you ought to turn around.

Maybe my awkward moves will become the next big dance craze in a couple of years. The hipster crowd is always looking for something terrible to adopt, and I’ve got the just the thing. By that time though, I’ll have my twerk down. Watch out, Miley. In a decade or so, you’re going to have some competition.

Zach Schweikert is a sophomore advertising major. Someone please teach the poor guy how to dance. His column appears every Thursday in Pulp. He can be reached at zdschwei@syr.edu.

Published on October 2, 2014 at 12:01 am