I’ve been struggling with whether or not to write this, because a) how irrelevant can one get, and 2) really, who cares?
But it keeps knocking around in my head, so I am going to go for it.
How many times have you seen Dirty Dancing? Ten? Fifteen? A hundred? For most of us, it’s somewhere within that range. Remember the romance? The intrigue? The lurve?
Dirty Dancing (Photo credit: ♥ Xanda ♥)
Yeah, well, I watched it (with my husband…it was his FIRST time) a few weeks ago, after twenty-six years (twenty-SIX years – say that out loud to yourself a few times), I have to say I saw that movie with a really fresh set of eyes. And not because I just got new contacts.
I’ve got a few things to say to Ms. Baby Houseman, if you’ll indulge me.
Dear Baby (Do you mind if I call you Baby?):
I’ve got a few things I’d like to discuss with you regarding your relationship with Johnny Castle. Let’s start here: It will never, NEVER work. Like, EVER. Let’s talk about why.
Johnny, though both ruggedly handsome and playfully sexy, is NOT the guy for you. You may think of it as a good will mission or ‘making the world a better place’, but here’s the thing: You two are from COMPLETELY different worlds.
While you crazy kids might do just fine until the pheromones wear off, eventually you will tire of Johnny’s persistent disregard of which fork to use at dinner. The way he’ll pronounce ‘foie gras’ will sound like nails on a chalkboard. His lack of appreciation for the nuances of your doctoral dissertation will be, at best, a bummer.
And as for career options? I suppose he could teach dance. Maybe he could open a studio. Your father MAY be able to pay his way through nursing school, leading him to a respectable career as an ex-dancing male nurse. There are options. And, by the way, did you ever find out whether or not he graduated high school? My money’s on no. Just think carefully about how well-received this will all be at Polo Club.
Eventually, you’ll want to visit the theatre, or the opera, and you’ll realize that Johnny may be, well, a little too rough around the edges for those types of activities. Sure, he can rock a tux, but where do you think he’ll put his gum when he’s done chewing?
I’d keep a close eye on your sister, Lisa, too. Between you, me, and the lamppost, she’s kind of a tramp.
And have you even remotely considered the in-law situation? At first, you’ll decide it’s the polite thing to do to let his father slap your ass while you’re cooking, but the era of polite will come and go. You’ll eventually get into all that women’s lib stuff and try to strangle him with your bra. It won’t be pretty.
A few years down the road, you’ll walk in and find him on the couch, in the dark, watching big-time wrestling, scratching his ass and swilling a Budweiser with your son Skeeter, AGAIN, and realize you’ve made a terrible mistake.
Luckily, Daddy’s got a few good lawyers on retainer, and will take care of this whole mess before the entire town gets wind.
You’re a smart girl. Do yourself a favor and WALK NOW. You’ve had a few memorable rolls in the hay, you carried a watermelon, you did the lift. You done good. Summer romance with a well-intentioned dance instructor from the wrong side of the tracks? Check!
Now get back to school and keep your eyes peeled for a marginally-kempt pacifist. It’ll be better for everyone in the long run.
