You’ve seen this before:

Two girls out at the club. Girl number 1 is popping, twerking, twisting and thrusting in all of her glory, while girl number 2 awkwardly stands by, subtly swaying her hips to the sub-par music as she checks her cell phone and chugs her drink. She isn’t excited to be dancing. She clearly feels out of place.

 In an effort to be a good friend, Girl Number 1 grabs Girl Number 2 by the hand and pulls her out to the dance floor. Because dancing is obviously the most fun thing in the world and if you’re not doing it, it must be because nobody has forcibly made you. Right? Riiiight…

Squirming, Girl Number 2 tries to pull her hand away from her friend’s death-grip to no avail. She. Must. Dance. You see her mouthing “no, no!” as her nervous laughter quickly turns to only nerves. She skids onto the dance floor right as some horrible Drake song begins playing, and after awkwardly tossing a few limbs around, she escapes back into the darkness–pretending she has to pee or something–and gets the hell out of there.

Are you Girl Number 1 or Girl Number 2? Forced girl-on-girl dancing is one of the biggest epidemics to hit the 16-34 year-old demographic, yet remains completely undiscussed in the media. Until now.

I know what you’re thinking, “What makes you the expert?” (Actually you’re probably thinking, “What in the fuck are you talking about, Angela?”) Well, throughout my many years of schooling, I too was the girl who would stand awkwardly in the corner at the school dances, watching my peers longingly as they “rode the pony” and “dirty danced.” I was much too insecure to be rubbing the crotch area of my MUDD jeans anywhere near the penis area of a puberty-ridden boy, and at the time I thought I was just a bad dancer. (In middle school I learned that if you’re a bad dancer it means you’re bad at sex, which worried me at the time but I now know to be false, as it turns out I am an amazing dancer and only sub-par in the bedroom.) I was the epitome of Girl Number 2. Now, many years later, many pounds lighter, and many less fucks given, I’ve cut enough rugs on the dance floor that I could open my own carpet warehouse. And you know why? Because I found the music that I like to dance to, and it ain’t “Black Widow.”

It was during college when I finally let my hair down and whipped it back and forth a couple times. Well, a lot of times. Turns out it’s really fucking easy to noodle dance, and I happen to love jam bands, where noodle dancing is basically the official handshake. I mean, have you seen the crazy shit hippies do at concerts? All that twirling and bobbing and weaving… that’s not a past life as a ballerina, it’s the music moving purely through their body. They are FEELING it. And no matter how bad of a dancer you might think you are, if you’re really feeling the music in your soul then you probably look pretty cool out there.

One other thing we should touch on. Can girls please stop doing that thing where they come up to you and start grinding on you and being super sexual and thinking it’s really funny? It’s not funny, it’s awkward as fuck and I don’t ever know how to react. It’s as if i’m getting a lap dance only you’re not naked and it didn’t cost me anything. Like, do I smile? Do I make eye contact with you? Do I dance sexually? Because I don’t really know how to do that, and now I’m back to being Girl Number 2 and am going to make a quick exit to the bathroom to gather my thoughts and text my mom.

Not every girl comes alive when Katy Perry comes on the radio, or when some cliched Lil John beat starts dropping at a crowded bar. Do not assume that just because somebody isn’t dancing it’s because they haven’t been asked. Maybe they aren’t comfortable enough in their own skin yet, have a couple pounds they want to shed, and while they might not be ready to do the chicken dance in front of 30 strangers, they can lip sync the fuck out of a Beyonce song in their bedroom. And you grabbing their hand and pulling them onto the dance floor, after they have protested over and over and over again, isn’t going to suddenly turn them into Ren McCormack at the school prom (Footloose joke, everybody). It’s going to make them feel even more awkward and probably scar them into never dancing… again! Do you really want to be responsible for that?!

So for the love of God, please: next time your friend isn’t dancing out at a club, or a show, or a bar, listen to her and do not publicly humiliate her by forcing the issue. Or better yet–find a good reggae show, ply her with tequila and make her come with you. Everybody can dance to reggae music.