I cannot dance. Sure, I have participated in quad day dances and performed some silly dance moves around my friends, but I never realized how painful my dancing was until I went through a deep, traumatic experience witnessed by my family members and hundreds of strangers this past July.

It was a hot and sweaty summer day in Jeju-Do, a rather large Korean island almost halfway around the globe. After exploring many of the tourists attractions and cafes for what seemed like an eternity in the blistering heat, my family decided to watch a show and finally catch our breaths in a dark, shady theatre.

At first, everything seemed to be going just as planned as we entered the dark, cool auditorium of what I believed would be a sea-life show. I had no idea that what I was about to watch was just a show with colorful lights, different acrobatic performances, and some water shot around in cool formations on stage.

The show began, and though I soon realized that I would not get to see dolphins and penguins swimming around, I began to feel comfortable watching the acrobats and stuntmen from China swing around the stage. I even clapped along with the crowd as loud music blared through speakers overhead.

But all of a sudden, the trapeze artists and acrobats left the stage. Everything went dark, but I could see parts of the stage adjusting for whatever act that was going to come next. When the colorful spotlights came back on, the back section of the stage had suddenly transformed into a large pool, and several very high decks had protruded from the wall high above the ground.

From there, a group of fit, massive, Russian men, entered onto the stage wearing nothing but colorful tight speedos. One thing led to another, and soon all the Russian men were running around the stage, pushing each other into the pool while taking turns jumping in from the elevated decks.

Confused and slowly losing track of what was going on with the performance, my fleeting mind abruptly focused back on the stage as a familiar yet distant tune began to play through the speakers. The song was none other than “Gangnam Style,” something that I had not heard since 2012.

As the song began to play, the muscular Russian men stopped what they were doing, and immediately jumped into the audience. They came running up the steps, searching for someone or something in the crowd. What was probably the largest man of the group of Russian performers ran up the steps next to my row, scanning the seats until his eyes landed on mine. Without hesitation, he quickly tapped my shoulder and motioned me to head up onto the stage.

Without a clue about what I was getting myself into, I bolted up out of my seat and jogged up to the stage. I awkwardly clambered up onto the raised platform. There, all the performers had lined up along the stage and were dancing to the iconic “Gangnam Style” dance. Outdated and cringey, the dance was a painful one for me to do.

But doing the dance in front of a massive Korean audience was not the worst part. As I was leaving the stage after what felt like an eternity, I saw that all the other audience members who were asked to come up on stage were small, young girls ranging from 3 to 7 years old.

After returning to my seat and regretting my decision for another 20 minutes, I was relieved when the show finally ended. As my family and I walked out of the auditorium, I could hear strangers snickering in Korean, “Oh, that’s the guy that danced with the little girls on stage.”

I apologize to all that had to witness my dancing.