What are the hallmarks of a good dance floor? Beyond the track selection, is it the pace at which the DJ moves between hits? Is it the square-footage-to-bodies ratio? Perhaps it is the amount of glowsticks. A subwoofer homesteading at the perfect decibel and frequency. Or maybe it’s the piny scent of spilled G&Ts, forming a sticky welcome mat for each foot that wobbles, shuffles, or looses its way across it.
I believe I am drawing nearer to the end of a season which stereotypical Calvin alumni often share: the perpetual wedding season of our twenties. While at times overwhelming, congregating with loved ones to observe beautiful friends speak unique commitments to each other deserves no small amount of celebration. Historically, I consider said commitments dully uncelebrated until I’ve had the chance to get to the dance floor.
The dance floor has become a hallowed space to me. It mantles an uninhibited state, unrelated to the open bar, which serves as a reminder to anchor myself in the beauty of my existence as a temporal, embodied being. The flightiness of each pilgrimaging moment is brought into sharp relief, chased by the next bass thump or snare crack that fills the room’s atmosphere. Amplitudes and frequencies take care to reside and resonate in each muscle fiber and bone tissue that they commune with. And yet, in this heightened awareness of finite sifting seconds and firm cell boundaries, limitlessness makes itself known. Awareness grows larger, expanding beyond the saturated atmosphere of sound and matter to greet the Giver of a single command: in the smallness of this moment and body, be.
Now, please note: I would describe my relationship with the dance floor as passionate. Nowhere in this piece of writing will you catch me saying that it is skillful. As I have observed my love for dancing grow over the years, I have also observed a correlation to the amount of bumps and collisions with those whom I share the floor with. My limbs get a little rowdy, my feet push off the ground at not quite the angle I had intended, and my exuberant spirit too quickly trades away its appropriate levels of spatial awareness in favor of whatever movement feels the most authentic in the moment. My courageous friends are the real heroes, a dauntless honor guard serving their peers by gently steering me with a quick pull on the shoulder or a subtle shout of, “There’s a small girl behind you!” into my ear. While I don’t believe I’ve ever caused major injury or disruption to another party, I can’t say I relish hearing a yelp escape the lungs of someone next to me as my careless sole juggernauts their exposed toe.
A few months ago, 2025’s wedding season called its last all-aboard and really began picking up steam. I couldn’t help but dwell on the thought that while I anticipated savoring my own reminder of a temporal and embodied existence via dance beat, no one deserved to have their own version of that reminder be delivered via a six-foot-four white boy crashing into them with the velocity of a humpback whale breaching a whitecap. And I found myself unsure of where this left me.
What does it imply to feel my own sense of embodiment threatened by another’s right to flourish in our shared holy ground? Surely two such aims should not be rivals. I guess I could wear a bright nametag with the title “Toe Smasher” as a warning to others, but it would clash with the new suit I wanted to wear. I had no choice but to consider reevaluating how I engaged with my ritual of embodiment.
I’ve recently rounded out this year’s nuptial celebrations and here are some key points that I found helpful this time around:
- There’s nothing wrong with dancing barefoot. I’ve been watching heel-wearers do it for years as they prioritize comfort and mobility, but shedding your own shoes (regardless of heel size) will significantly decrease the potential to wreak havoc on your vulnerable brethren. As a bonus, this may also prevent intrepid outer soles from parting with your budget DSW wingtips like mine did last month.
- Stick with your honor guard. In my experience, they are less likely to hold a grudge when your trailblazing elbow collides with their Jack & Coke.
- When you’re gathering your jacket to leave and Cascada’s Everytime We Touch starts playing, it doesn’t mean you have to morph into the Kool-Aid Man and smash back onto the dance floor with abandon (OH YEAH!). You’re old now—it’s okay to go home, put on your nightie, and go to bed. There will always be *cue Cascada melody* a-no-ther-time-to-touch.
I hope to see you on the dance floor sometime soon! And if I bump into you, please remember it’s not personal—I’m still just working out how to properly celebrate my embodiment.
Luke Brandsen graduated in 2019 and uses his business/HR degree to inform directing mission-focused programs. He currently lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where he squints at the players on his bootleg soccer stream, breaks guitar strings, and desperately tries to recall where the last D&D session he ran left off.
