I had never gone to a football game or high school dance before. It was something I wanted to do before I graduated, and I felt I was missing out on something.

I’d think “there’s always next time” or “maybe next year” and convince myself to just stay at home.

I finally got my motivation when I realized that I would never go to one if I kept putting it off. I decided just to go.

The football game:

I had always wanted to go to a football game. I had seen them in movies. I had read about them in “Archie” comics. I thought they were fun. I was absolutely right.

I don’t like sporting events, and I don’t like football much. I never could’ve imagined myself to be a screaming, shouting, excited sports fan, cheering whenever there was a touchdown or great pass and groaning whenever we fumbled or they scored. But I was that crazed fan.

Adding to the atmosphere, there was a barbeque. I loved the smoky flavor of the air. I ate a delicious piping-hot tri-tip sandwich.

It was a quintessentially all-American experience I’ll never forget.

The dance:

As it turned out, going to the dance was a bad decision.

The dance was a quintessentially awkward, embarrassing, disappointing and infuriating experience. I have never been so disappointed in myself and shocked at the behavior of my classmates in my entire high school career.

My ordeal started off innocently enough. I, still happy and contented from the previous night’s football game, bounded through the gym door and said hello to a friend. We went in the darkened gym where music blared.

Since neither of us likes to dance, we sat shyly and awkwardly in one of the dark corners of the gym. We tried making small talk, but the music was much too loud. Then I saw something obscene.

I could barely make it out in the darkness, but I was pretty sure I saw many dozens of girls grinding their derrieres against guys’ crotches. I asked my friend and got a snappy response.

“They’re freaking,” he said.

Many thoughts raced through my head. My initial thought was “What in the …?!” followed by a “Is this even allowed?” I tried to block the thoughts out of my mind as I tried to talk with my friend. Unfortunately for us, we couldn’t hear each other over the music.

We retreated to the lobby to escape the onslaught of the pounding of rhythmic bass. At least in there, we could hear, if just barely, each other’s voices. There were big bowls of Hersheys’ Kisses on tables in the lobby. I unwrapped several at a time and popped them in my mouth. Soon I had finished most of them, but not $25 worth (the price of admission).

After about a half hour, I decided to go in the gym again.  I scurried off into a dark corner and tried to talk by yelling into my friend’s ear. I spent most of the night like this, walking from corner to corner, trying to talk, mostly feeling embarrassed.

I felt frustrated: Why am I no good with girls, or at having fun? I wanted this evening to be fun. I wore my lucky color red. I thought girls liked red. I came to the dance with such high hopes. This was something I’ve always wanted to do—go to a high school dance. I expected so much, and the dance was just so horrible. I felt terribly disappointed; it was something I’ve wanted to go to for years, and it was so underwhelmingly bad.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I could hear myself speak over the music. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they reduced the extortionate price of $25. Maybe it’s OK that I’m not the type of guy who’s good at “dancing.” Maybe it’s OK that I’m not a suave ladies’ man.

But I’m sure this experience isn’t representative of the rest of high school. At least I can say that I’ve crossed this thing off my bucket list and survived. Who knows if I’ll go back? Maybe next time I’ll be smart enough to bring ear plugs.