You could meet somebody who really loves you...
When I was fourteen years old, we lived across the street from the Stake Center. I was still pretty young, so I didn't really pay attention to youth dances even though my dad was involved in Young Men's and was often a chaperon. One night when he was across the street chaperoning a Stake dance, a couple of my friends from school rang my doorbell. Glenn and Ross (the names have been changed to protect the innocent) had been at the dance when my father noticed them and asked them to go get me. Humiliation #1. Thanks, Dad.
As we prepared to go over to the Stake Center, I discovered that I did not have the necessary two dollars to get in. My friends had already paid their admission and gotten their hands stamped. We went up to my room to rummage through my junk drawer, trying to scare up enough change, but to no avail. What I did have was a red Magic Marker, which Glenn expertly used to create a mark on my hand. It was flawless. Our three hand-stamps were indistinguishable. We crossed the street, proud in the knowledge that we had beaten the system. I confidently strode through the packed lobby up to the desk to show my stamp and gain admission, but who should be observing the whole scene but my father. He was talking to someone, far enough away that I couldn't talk to him but close enough to see the whole thing. I put my hand back in my pocket; I couldn't show my awesome forgery without him seeing it, so I panicked. Glenn and Ross were ahead of me and we all ignored the girl with the cash box and just pushed through to the dance. "Hello? It's two dollars!" she yelled after us, but we quickly disappeared in the crowd. Humiliation #2.
The cultural hall was darker than I had ever seen it and a disco ball was hanging from the rafters. I remember distinctly that Erasure was blasting through the speakers. There were a number of people convulsing grotesquely to the music (is there any other way to dance to "Oh, L'Amour"?) but the great majority were gathered into small groups of all boys or all girls. Glenn, Ross and I staked out some ground against a wall and watched the proceedings. This is what my dad wanted me to experience? I couldn't help thinking this was a total waste of time and energy.
It didn't seem unusual at the time, but most surprising to me in hindsight is that we were approached and asked to dance several times by girls. Insecure jerks that we were, we refused all comers. At one point I said to one intrepid girl, "I'm sorry, I don't dance." Which was true, but then why was I at a dance? Ask my father. Wherever you are, girl-who-asked-me-to-dance, I'm sorry. But really, you have no idea how narrowly you escaped the trauma of witnessing my dance moves. You're welcome.
As the dance was winding down, my dad found me. "I noticed that you just kind of pushed your way in tonight."
"Well, I didn't have any money."
"Here's two dollars; make sure you pay them on the way out." Humiliation #3.
Glenn and Ross had to stick around for Ross's mom to pick them up, but I was done. I headed for the door, dreading the humiliation of explaining to the cashier why I was paying her two dollars on the way OUT of the dance. I folded up the two bills, and as I passed the table, I tossed the two dollars near the cash box without turning or slowing down. I bolted for the door as the young woman shouted after me, "thanks for the donation!" My face had turned purple by the time I reached the blessed safety of the outside air. Humiliation #4.
Soon after this incident, my family moved far away from Utah and its awkward youth dances. I can't say I was too disappointed. I am proud to report that after a few mortifying high school dances, I have succeeded in never dancing again, not even at my wedding. You're welcome.