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Beneath swinging plastic chandeliers and an earnest canopy of cirque-inspired fabric in the school gymnasium, I think I might have figured out the mystery of modern love. I was a bystander Saturday night, mind you, sent there by my administration to fortify the troops in our campaign against youthful indulgence and the dangers of freak dancing. Dance duty is one of those job descriptions that no one tells you about when you sign your teaching contract, but I’ve never been discouraged by the assignment. Instead, I’ve come to see myself as a student of human behavior in the jungle, sort of like Jane Goodall with a manicure and strappy heels. If you think I’m going to gripe about the unholy trinity of teenage behavior—sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll—you’ve got me all wrong. Some things never change from generation to generation, so I’m not going to tell you how bad it is now compared to when I was in school. I am pretty sure that in past generations, girls were still obsessed with shallow gossip while the boys were trying to sneak a peek down the front of their dresses. And that’s just the stuff you can see in plain sight while walking the floor.
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