The man wore nothing but loose white capris and a look of intense concentration. He convulsed jerkily in quick, awkward motions, kicking and leaping around. The people watching him tried to look away, but were strangely intrigued by the ugliness and frenzy of his movements.

No, this is not a scene from a beginners' karate class. Unfortunately, it's what I spent two hours of my life on at the Milwaukee Ballet's International Choreographic Competition Saturday night.

The man on stage danced up a sweat, jolting and spasm-ing to the music. His legs went one way. His head went another. And then his arms – oh gracious, those arms – slapped his chest dramatically, over and over again. This made a rather unfortunate sound, as his bare chest was wet and his arms were flying pretty fast.

In the seat next to me, my roommate started laughing. As I watched her struggle with her own convulsions – which were much less scary to see than the ballerina's – I burst out laughing too. We sat there, shaking and biting our lips as the poor half-naked dancer man twitched and twirled his way offstage.

Now, I realize that though this dance undulation looked strange to me, the ballerina spent months of his life preparing for the performance. To be fair, his dancing was excellent for what the choreographer appeared to be going for. I just don't understand what was meant to be conveyed by the dancer literally smacking his bare chest like Tarzan. The choreographer might have been going for something deep here, but I sure didn't see it come across. Maybe I was too busy trying to stifle the snorts that sometimes escape in my giggle fits.

I suppose this instance could paint me as immature, but I'm comforted by the fact that I'm not the only one who seems to find humor at inappropriate times. Though I apparently have problems staying composed at the ballet, I've noticed that others have a hard time keeping a straight face in church.

As a member of Marquette's Liturgical Choir, I have a pretty good view of the congregation during Mass. Every once and a while, we'll sing this song called "Remember Your Love," which unfortunately has a verse that strongly resembles a certain line about "pure imagination" from a song in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." Whenever we sing it, I watch as people in the pews gradually notice the similarity and start shaking one by one. Someone will figure it out, laugh and whisper to their neighbor, who will in turn laugh, whisper to their neighbor, and so on.

Others can't seem to stop laughing in class. Or in really sad parts of movies. Or in the library. I have a sneaking suspicion that text messages are at the root of all this mischief.

I do feel bad losing it in a case like the ballet, where what's going on is so serious to the people who actually understand it. But at the end of the day, I think we all take ourselves too seriously.

And as far as the ballet goes, I figure it evens out. Somewhere out there, a ballerina is laughing at the stupidity of this column.