Picture this. A dark room, save for laser beams of green, blue and red lights scouring like we’re in CIA vaults. Your ears vibrate with a pulsating bass that matches the pulsating gyrations of a sweat-drenched stranger standing behind you. You squeeze your way through Axe-scented plaid shirts to make it to the center of the dance floor—your friend holding onto yours for dear life because to get separated would be akin to Mufasa falling off the side of the cliff. Except in this scenario, the stampede of wildebeests are equally aggressive grabby palms taking liberties with your solo journey across the floor.

At last, you make it to what seems to be the center. The only way you know is that the sea of bodies gathered there seem to be swaying, jumping or humping, collectively. And since you made it to this mecca of sweaty gatherings, you might as well make the effort to turn off everything in your brain that says, “This is not dancing.” The other problem is that no one really knows what to do with the music. Hands in the air seem to be a safe bet, so that’s what you do. But sooner or later you realize that the bro-pump is probably not your best look. So you stop and look around for somebody, anybody, who wants to actually dance and stop bobbing like a million drunken sailors.* Yet everyone is a wallflower and no one knows how to dance anymore, so shuffling around and accidentally bumping into people is where we’ve found ourselves. It’s a shame, because music really isn’t meant for dancing anymore. And it’s just too bad for the people that want to go dance and not get manhandled, because you’re shit out of luck.

Similarly no one knows how to date, either. Having dinner for the sheer pleasure of getting to know someone without the expectation of sex at the end of it is even seen as prudish. Hearing, “people come to expect it on the third date” is pretty common. Or “Who waits a month anymore? Most people would think you’re a tease.” True, or as pessimistic as it may be, this is the breakdown of a courtship culture. The nuances of dating—of calling someone on the phone, of making plans a few days (not hours) in advance, of simple walks in the park without getting plastered at happy hour, don’t exist as they used to. It’s equivalent to the fast-food era, sped up with plenty of room for flippancy and bad choices, perhaps due to the “Tinder-ization” of our romantic moment. We’ve become spoiled in feeling like we have options to always choose someone better, at the swipe of a finger.

Truth is…some of that may be true. We have more options and like to explore them. We appear to have less time so we date more furiously with no time to spare. “Ain’t nobody got time for that” is the mantra. When it comes to dancing (the other crumbling skill of yesteryear) it’s with fury and nervousness, wrapped up in nervous intoxication. So where do we go from here?

Perhaps we need to take a cue from the food industry and invent the Slow-Dating Movement.

*If you want to know what it’s like in your typical modern dancing venue, I give you Lil Jon’s epileptic-inducing, Turn Down For What: