The IOC’s skating onslaught of 2014 meant we had multiple chances to watch ice dancing, a category I’ve always found ludicrous—more akin to Skating with the Stars than to any Olympic sport. Even men’s singles skater Johnny Weir, who was commenting on the event for the NBC Sports Network, said, “I can’t remember the last time I sat through a free dance.”

Watching ice dancing is like meeting a new boyfriend’s annoying friend: It puts the nearby love object (in this case, all of figure skating) in an unflattering light. Ice dancing draws attention to the sport’s tacky and flimsy costumes, its obsession with appearances (which also mean its unacknowledged eating disorders), its often cheesy choreography and unimaginative music. (Anything Goes, for the umpteenth time; or, today, two versions of Swan Lake.) Dancing on ice is certainly physically challenging, but it lacks the athleticism that makes sport sport. Its Summer Games analogue is rhythmic gymnastics, which no one watches except the Russians, who swept the last Olympics.